Lace Weaver

by Lauren Chater

  ‘No, Kati,’ Helle insisted. ‘If Leili thinks we should do the test, then we must. I’ve nothing to fear.’

  She handed me the topmost shawl on the pile. The women in the knitting circle leaned forward eagerly to watch as I held Etti’s ring between my fingers and poked the end of Helle’s shawl through. As I pulled the remainder of the lace through, I heard my grandmother’s voice. Each shawl must be fine enough to be drawn through a wedding ring. Just as smoke from a chimney is a sure sign that a woman is knitting inside, so is the ring test a way for us to know a shawl’s quality.

  When the shawl pulled clear through, some of the younger women clapped. The mood in the room lifted. Laughter and conversation began to flow as they flocked back to their seats, the older ones relating stories of the other times they had seen the trick performed.

  ‘There, you see?’ Helle’s eyes were bright. She turned her back pointedly on Leili, who unfolded her arms and hobbled back to her chair. Helle handed me the basket and I took it to the bureau that held the completed shawls awaiting market day.

  One or two other women brought forward their shawls for my inspection and then added them to the growing pile in the bureau. Aunt Juudit emerged with a tray from the kitchenette, where she had been heating up water brewed with nettles and strips of birch. Some of the young women wrinkled up their noses at the broth, but others, Helle and Leili included, took up their chipped mugs and muttered a small blessing, grateful for the warm drink that they swore eased their knotted joints and aching bones.

  Aunt Juudit restarted the gramophone and led the younger women in another rousing rendition of ‘L’Internationale’ while behind her back, my cousin Etti paused in her knitting to throw me an exasperated look.

  With the women occupied, I found a moment to pull out my own yarn and knitting needles. This shawl will be my last, I thought, and the knowledge was bittersweet. What pattern would I make? I sat in quiet reflection a moment before taking up the needles for the veniv kootud serv: stretchy knitted cast-on. I would make a wolf’s paw shawl. It seemed fitting that my grandmother’s pattern would be the last I made before I was forced to stop. The pleasant rhythm of the knitting soon took over. I felt my body slowly relax, the tension leaving my arms and legs.

  ‘Kati!’ I turned to find Viktoria standing beside me. A wisp of a girl with bad skin and teeth, she smiled at me from beneath a curtain of hair that fell in mousy ringlets down to her waist.

  I stood, giving her my brightest smile. ‘How are you, Vikki?’

  ‘Good.’ Viktoria was twisting a shawl in her hands. ‘Look, I finished the pasqueflower! It was hard; you were right, about needing to keep just the right amount of tension in the yarn. I had to unpick a few rows, but it’s finished now.’

  As I took it from her the lace was warm from her hands. I unfolded it carefully, noting the delicate openwork leaves with twisted stems, the double strand of yarn Vikki had used to strengthen the finer parts. I could feel her watching me anxiously. The bottom edges had been worked carefully so that they draped and did not curl. It was the sort of shawl my grandmother would have praised; although it was not embellished with nupps, the foundations of the shawl were secure, the stitches evenly spaced.

  ‘Viktoria,’ I said, my heart lifting with pride. ‘This is beautiful work!’ I turned the shawl in my hands, marvelling at how far Viktoria had come since she first joined our knitting circle last year. If anyone had told me then that it was she who had crafted this fine shawl, I would have shaken my head in disbelief. Viktoria had been living upstairs with her father until the night of the Soviets’ arrival. He had been beaten to death after rushing out to protest as the Russian military moved through the streets, rounding up members of political parties and local policemen who would not comply. It was said that half a million troops moved across the Baltics during the first days of the Soviet occupation, their number far outweighing the armies of Estonia, Lithuania and Latvia. Only some people had dared to resist and those who chose to fight, like the Estonian Independent Signal Battalion in Tallinn, soon found themselves surrounded, forced to negotiate and surrender before they too were killed.

  A week after the annexation, the same day the Nazis occupied France, Aunt Juudit had found Viktoria wandering dazed in the courtyard outside the apartment block, her hands raw and bleeding. Through her tears, she’d explained how she had gone to search for her father and found a group of soldiers kicking his lifeless body. When she cried out, they chased her. She’d taken refuge in the cellar of a shop which had been looted and set on fire, too scared to return home, too afraid to go back and find her father’s body to arrange a burial. When she at last found her way back to the apartment block, Aunt Juudit had organised for her to stay with Helle in the apartment down the hall, and encouraged her to join us, in the hope that the knitting would keep her mind away from the horrors she had witnessed. Even so it had taken at least two months before Viktoria’s hands were steady enough to hold the needles properly and another three months of practising by copying my grandmother’s lace samplers before she was ready to knit her first shawl.

  The Viktoria standing before me was different to the one I remembered from her first knitting circle, that shy ghost of a girl who refused to speak, and winced when I first handed her the needles. This Viktoria stood more confidently, her shoulders pushed back. Her hair shone like copper and even her skin was less red than usual, which probably had something to do with the bars of pine tar soap Helle cooked up in her apartment kitchenette.

  ‘Do you think it’s good enough to sell at market next week?’ Viktoria said.

  ‘Of course it is.’ I began to fold the shawl up, pressing the corners together. ‘It is more than good enough.’

  Viktoria shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘Aren’t you going to test it? With the ring?’

  I paused, the shawl pinned between my fingers. Viktoria tried to smile but her eyes were troubled. ‘That’s just a trick,’ I told her, trying to soothe. ‘It’s an old saying. It means nothing these days.’

  ‘No.’ She curled her hands into balls. Her mouth was determined. ‘I want it to be tested like the others. I need to know if it’s good enough. Truly good enough.’

  I was about to argue but something held me back. Perhaps it was the memory her words sparked in me. I had said almost the same thing to my grandmother when I was eight, when I had finished my first rätik shawl. I brought out Etti’s ring again. It glinted in my palm. As I pulled the shawl through, I heard Viktoria draw in a breath.

  The shawl slipped through the golden band like a cascade of foamy water.

  Viktoria sighed.

  ‘You see?’ Refolding it quickly, I strode to the bureau and placed it with the others. ‘You have nothing to worry about. You’ve made amazing progress, Vikki.’

  She beamed at me, bouncing on the soles of her feet. ‘Perhaps I could try the peacock tails next. Or even the Muhu pine. And one day, I would like to try my hand at the wolf’s paw. That is, when you think I am ready, of course.’

  Laughing, I shook my head. ‘Why not? You can do anything. It’s just time and practice now, a matter of patience. Why don’t you start with the peacock sampler? When you’ve mastered it I will help you cast on and you’ll be on your own after that.’

  ‘Patience. Yes.’ With a last grin and a wave, Viktoria disappeared back to her chair.

  ‘She is like a different girl,’ Etti said, coming to stand by my shoulder.

  ‘I was only thinking that,’ I said. ‘The knitting has changed her. This is yours.’ I offered her the wedding ring. Etti took it but did not put it on. ‘My fingers are too swollen. Like the rest of me,’ she said, glancing down at her body. I had to admit that it did not seem possible that Etti could grow any larger. Her round belly was pulled taut against the white linen of her blouse. She pressed one hand against it as I watched, and then froze as if waiting for a response. A moment passed and her face relaxed. She patted the lump, a furtive smile transforming her face from it
s usual strained lines into one of pure happiness.

  ‘Is it painful?’ I said, not wanting to offend but unable to stem my curiosity. My cousin and I had not been close as children, although we had played together whenever our families met. A few years older than me, Etti had struggled with various childhood illnesses – fevers, colds, wheezing in the lungs – that had kept her from school most days and prevented us from developing the kind of warmth I had seen in other extended families. Then when she was eighteen, she had married a Jewish friend of my uncle’s and gone to live with him in Pärnu. Although he was Jewish, David did not observe religious practice, choosing to stay home with his young wife instead of attending synagogue and to work in the fabric shop he had set up in Pärnu’s busy market district. In turn, Etti was happy to support him, helping choose the stock and run up samples of dresses and skirts. It was a good match, it seemed. When the Soviets arrived, they had taken David away to work in the mines at Kiviõli along with ten other men from the Pärnu Jewish community, leaving the women to fend for themselves. A heartbroken Etti had returned home to Aunt Juudit’s only to receive a letter a month later informing her that David had been crushed in a mine accident along with his crew. For weeks, Etti had been inconsolable. She had rallied, spurred on by the discovery that she was carrying his child, but the sadness had never truly left her.

  ‘It’s strange,’ she said now, measuring each word slowly. ‘It’s not what you imagine. Sometimes it’s like I have a fish inside me, at other times I can feel hands and feet, it’s more like one of the tadpoles Jakob used to tease us with when we were children.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘He was a terror.’

  Etti grinned. ‘The worst.’

  ‘Not much has changed. Does he come here much? He hasn’t been home for months. Mama is ready to come and drag him back if he doesn’t visit soon.’

  Etti rubbed her belly with the flat of her hand. ‘I’ve not seen him for weeks,’ she admitted. ‘He used to come here almost every night just to feed himself – I think the food at the dorms is not to his liking – but he stopped.’

  My thoughts shifted uneasily. Why had my brother turned his back on us? My thoughts, my worries for my brother, led me in a twisting path back to my purpose. I needed to tell the women the truth: that I had not come merely to coordinate the shawls for market day.

  I cleared my throat, hoping they would all look up, at the same time dreading the horrified gasps that would accompany my news.

  Before I could speak, Aunt Juudit clapped her hands.

  ‘Let’s have some more music, ladies,’ she said. ‘No, not more “L’Internationale”. Something better.’

  ‘I thought there was nothing better than “L’Internationale”, Mama!’ Etti called.

  Aunt Juudit pretended to look shocked at both her daughter and at the tittering laughter. Her fingers danced across the records in their folders, flicking them back until she found what she was searching for. She slipped the disk from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable, carefully manoeuvring the needle. The speaker crackled. Then a burst of music erupted into the room.

  ‘That’s better!’ she said. ‘Much less Russian, don’t you agree, Kati? In fact, the opposite!’

  My stomach swooped. It was a snippet of ‘The Ride’ from the opera The Valkyrie, by Wagner.

  I nodded, trying to keep the smile on my face although it felt stiff and frozen now. Oskar’s words echoed in my mind. The pact will not hold.

  ‘Kati, are you quite well?’ Aunt Juudit crossed the room and laid a hand on my arm.

  I swallowed, my chest tight. ‘I just need some air.’

  Aunt Juudit nodded. ‘Come out to the balcony.’

  I followed her and Etti out through the timber doors, the triumphant strains of Wagner’s opera following on my heels. The balcony was a narrow space, no more than ten paces wide, but Aunt Juudit had managed to fit two timber chairs and a large tub of bright red geraniums onto it, along with the frames on which Miri and Helve’s shawls were drying. Beyond the balcony, I saw the grand pillared buildings of the university glowing white in the sun. Far up the hill, I knew, were the red-brick ruins of the Dorpat Cathedral.

  A light, warm breeze caressed my face, carrying with it the porous scent of the geraniums. It was peaceful here. If I tried, I could almost forget the importance of what Oskar had said. If I let the breeze tickle my closed eyes, I could almost pretend that it was simply another warm spring in Tartu without the ever-present shadow of the Russians watching over our shoulders, always waiting for their chance to capture the last fragments of freedom we held in our hands.

  ‘Kati? You looked so pale in there.’ Aunt Juudit’s face was lined with concern. ‘Tell us what’s troubling you. We’re your family. We can help.’

  I bit back a sob. I could tell my aunt and my cousin about the Germans, but they would want to know how I came by the information. By talking about our meeting with Oskar, I would be drawing them into danger. Anyone found to be sympathetic to the Forest Brothers and their cause would be arrested or shot. There was only one piece of information that was safe to impart.

  ‘It’s the shawls. Papa says we have no more wool. The knitting circle will have to be disbanded. At least until we can find another source. Or until the Soviets leave.’ I allowed myself a bitter laugh. The idea was so ludicrous. The only way they would give up the Baltics was through war. A war that, it now seemed, was imminent.

  Etti worried at the fringe of her shawl.

  Aunt Juudit was silent. Then she nodded slowly. ‘Is that the only thing that’s troubling you?’ She fumbled with the shawl around her neck, her thin fingers unknotting the lace. A sea of peacock tails danced as she waved it at me. ‘Tell me, Kati, what do you see?’

  I frowned. ‘Peacock tails?’

  Aunt Juudit laughed. ‘No, Kati. You’re being too obvious.’ She draped the shawl across her arm. ‘Look. Do you remember when your grandmother showed me how to knit peacocks? Do you remember what my stitching was like, before she helped me?’

  ‘You picked it up so quickly.’ I shrugged. ‘I can hardly remember what you were like before.’

  ‘Can’t you?’ Aunt Juudit flung the shawl around her neck, knotting it nimbly at her throat again. ‘Let me remind you: I was dreadful! Etti remembers. Don’t you, dear one?’

  Etti nodded.

  Aunt Juudit pursed her lips. Bending down, she grasped my hands firmly in her own. ‘Now listen to me. Selling these shawls was never about money. Yes, the money helps. But we will all share what we have. We will survive. We’ve survived so far, haven’t we? So. What this is really about is you.’ She paused. ‘You’ve helped us. Since your grandmother’s death, you’ve kept this group together. Even after last year, even after everything that happened with the Russians. Helle, Viktoria, even Etti here. We have all kept going because you are there to give advice when needed, you are there to show us how and why we knit even when our spirit fails us. Do you understand?’

  Her eyes bore into mine until I nodded. It was the reason my grandmother had left me in charge. She would be proud of what we had achieved.

  ‘Good,’ Aunt Juudit said. ‘Then let’s have no more talk about disbanding the knitting circle. It isn’t necessary. I’ll speak to your father myself. He can’t object if we aren’t making any sales. What will we do if we have no more yarn? We will unpick all our old shawls and start again. We will teach ourselves to be better. Then, by the time we have found more wool, we will be masters like your grandmother. Like you.’

  I blinked hard to force back my tears.

  ‘Good.’ Aunt Juudit released my hand, satisfied. ‘Now if I can only convince Etti not to call my grandchild Hezekiah or Mikaela, I will consider my duty done.’

  Etti’s mouth tightened. ‘It’s my decision, Mama. I think David would have wanted the child to have a Hebrew name.’

  ‘I understand,’ Aunt Juudit said, her features softening. ‘But perhaps a mixture of both first and middle names? There are so
many fine Estonian names. Your grandfather for instance: Endel. Or Erich, like your uncle. Or Evi or Leelo, if it’s a girl.’

  Etti touched her belly lightly. ‘Well, I will give it some thought. What do you think, Kati?’

  I opened my mouth to reply but before I could, Etti moved suddenly. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, bending double to clutch her belly, her mouth stretched in a wide grimace. I watched her face convulse with pain. After what seemed like a lifetime, the pain receded. Her features unknotted and she sagged. ‘I’m sorry. It happens more frequently these days.’ She placed her hands on either side of her belly. ‘You haven’t felt her kick yet, have you, Kati?’

  I shook my head. I allowed my cousin to place my hand on her belly. For a second, there was nothing, but then I felt something press against my palm, something solid and forceful that said, Don’t ignore me. I am here. Etti laughed at my sharp intake of breath.

  ‘She’s relying on you to teach her,’ she told me as the kick came again, knocking against my hand. ‘By the time she is our age, she will be the best lace weaver in Tartu.’

  ‘Perhaps she will be a fighter,’ I suggested, ‘with a kick like that.’ It was only afterwards, as Aunt Juudit linked arms with Etti and they moved towards the balcony doors, that my own words sent a chill along my spine. The burden of secret knowledge weighed heavily on my heart. What kind of world would Etti’s child enter? What would happen to us if Oskar’s prophecy of war came true?

  Ring Pattern

  Lydia

  ‘Freedom!’

  At first, I thought I’d imagined it; the catchcry of my own heart, the result of exhaustion, of too many hours spent travelling and too much introspection. But it was real, as was the sudden burst of gunfire, deafeningly loud – rat-a-tat like the first moment a wireless radio is flicked on and static floods the airwaves.

  Through the window, smoke drifted across the platform. Figures moved like shadows behind a glass lamp. Every few seconds, the smoke would clear to show the timber posts scaffolding the station platform’s roof, or a person running past.