‘Lida? What is happening?’ Olga’s voice was hoarse with fear.
‘I don’t know.’
Our train had paused at the small station platform in Tiksoja to drop off passengers before the final leg to Tartu. The whistle had just blown before the rattle of gunfire sent everyone into panic.
I pressed my face against the glass. A cloud of smoke was dispersed by a puff of breeze, revealing the body of a Soviet train guard lying motionless, face down on the platform, a pool of dark blood puddled around him. I drew back sharply, my stomach churning.
‘What is it?’ Olga cried.
I shook my head, unable to answer. I had never seen a dead body like this before. Mama’s corpse in the funeral house had looked almost real, her features smoothed by the embalmer’s hands. There’d been no trace of blood, no real evidence her spirit had fled except the lack of movement and the coldness of her skin. This was altogether different. There was a rawness to what I’d witnessed, a sharp edge to the vision like a blade touching skin. I fought the urge to look again, horrified but compelled.
The gunfire resumed. People screamed. Boots thundered in the hallway, and Olga and I clung to each other as the door to our compartment was flung open.
A man in an unfamiliar brown uniform stood before us, hefting a rifle in his arms. ‘Out, out!’ he yelled. ‘Leave everything behind.’
I threw off the heavy fur coat and we obeyed, filing into the narrow corridor with the other passengers. Most of them were sobbing. One woman tripped and fell. Nobody moved to help her. Instead, people stepped over her outstretched limbs, ignoring her pleas for help. Once outside, we heard more voices shouting. The rattle of gunfire was louder, relentless. The stink of it lodged inside my nose. Passengers flung themselves to the ground, and Olga and I did the same.
Small pebbles dug into my cheek. Raising my head slightly, I swivelled my head in time to see boots clomp past.
‘Olga!’
‘I am here.’ Fingers clutched my wrist, digging in. I felt a hand snake around my waist, Olga’s leg pressed against my own.
As suddenly as it had begun, the gunfire ceased. Dust floated down amid the sounds of muffled whimpers.
‘Is it over?’ I whispered.
Olga’s arm tightened around my waist. ‘Be quiet.’
More boots filled my vision, moving past us. I dared to raise my head a fraction, and saw that the boots belonged to a group of men, all dressed in the same brown uniform as the man who had boarded the train. Bandits. They were running in and out of the train, emerging with their arms full of suitcases and carpet bags. Some were openly rummaging through the luggage, discarding anything not of value. Most had rifles slung over their shoulders. A few stood guard, guns ready, their gaze sweeping the station, watching for any sign of resistance or retaliation, but nobody moved. Nobody resisted. The bodies of the Soviet guards who had been riding the train with us were strewn about the platform.
My heart jumped into my mouth at the sound of something heavy being dragged along the ground. I half-turned and saw a bandit wrestling with a trunk, a monstrously large thing papered over with official-looking stamps and crests. He managed to heave it off the train and onto the platform, where he kicked it and it toppled over onto its side, spilling its contents into the dust. Frilled petticoats and ladies’ undergarments disgorged in a tangled heap.
The man bent over them, rummaging like a pig seeking truffles, shoving the petticoats aside until finally he straightened, his prize – a jewellery box – clutched in one hand. Something inside it dazzled as he flicked the lid open.
‘Stop!’
A woman nearby had half-risen to her knees. Her face was smeared with dirt, but I recognised her from the station platform in Leningrad. Olga and I had watched the train guard shouting orders to the porter as her trunks were loaded in, while she preened nearby beneath the attention of a handsome man in uniform; a diplomat or a high-ranking officer, most likely. A man of enough importance to secure her a compartment alone in the first-class carriage. Olga had pursed her lips as the train began to hiss steam and the man and young woman enacted a tearful farewell, complete with kisses loud enough to make me turn away.
Now the woman was trembling, one hand clutched at her lace collar.
‘Please,’ she called, voice husky with tears. ‘My fiancé gave me that ring. It belonged to his mother from Kiev. You can – you can take the rest. All the roubles, but . . . please. Let me keep the ring.’
‘Fool,’ I heard Olga mutter.
The thief paused, one hand still tucked inside his pocket. He had a young face beneath his dirty blond hair that hung down in ragged strips, as if he’d hacked it off with a blunt blade.
‘Jaak?’
Footsteps crunched beside us on the gravel.
‘Jah, Kalev.’
I raised my eyes to see another man stride into view. The two men spoke rapidly in Estonian, and the shift of language jolted me. It had been so long since my mother taught me, but many of the words jumped out. Ring Russians Roubles. Their words in my head were like the currents of a river that flowed together then broke apart.
I studied them. This man – Kalev – carried himself differently to the other boys, although he could only be slightly older. Twenty-two at most. While his companions were hunched, as if they thought to make themselves invisible, Kalev held himself erect like a statue carved from rock. His blond hair was close-cropped. He gestured with his fingers as he talked. The confident flick of his hand conveyed the weight of his authority. A leader, I thought, my mind accustomed to placing power where it naturally belonged.
As if he had heard me speak, he turned his head suddenly and looked directly at me, eyes narrowed. I dropped my gaze to the dirt beneath my face, heart bumping painfully against my ribs. I waited for fingers to grip my collar, to be dragged to my feet and searched for valuables.
‘Tanan, Jaak.’ Thank you. Footsteps, coming closer. I squeezed my eyes shut.
The footsteps went past. I dared to raise my head.
Kalev was standing beside the Russian woman Jaak had been speaking to. She flinched as he kneeled down, and whimpered softly as his rifle slid forward on his arm. He lifted his shoulder, nudging it back.
‘This is your ring?’ he said, in accented Russian.
The young woman nodded.
‘Take it.’ He held it out. The diamond twinkled between his fingers. When she didn’t move, he reached down and grasped her hand, forcing her stiff fingers open so he could slip the ring into her palm. The woman’s mouth fell open as she stared up at him, her face tear-streaked.
‘We might be thieves but we aren’t animals. Perhaps you will remember that the next time your countrymen shoot at us in the forest.’
He straightened, adjusting his brown suit.
‘Kalev!’ Shouts echoed at the other end of the platform. The young man tensed instantly, dropping into a crouch. The ground began to vibrate, and gunfire crackled in the distance amid more yelling from the lookouts as they called the men back. ‘Jaak! Walter!’
Their boots kicked up dust around us, sending pebbles flying into the air. My eyes stung. Through the dust haze, I saw them run towards the edge of the forest and disappear. Moments later, Russian army soldiers flooded the platform.
More dust. More chaos. More voices shouting, this time in Russian.
I covered my head with my hands to block out the noise.
‘Lida.’ Olga was shaking me. ‘It’s over.’
Pushing myself upright, I stared into Olga’s face. Dust had wormed its way into the creases, giving her the appearance of an old marionette doll carved from wood. White hair billowed around her shoulders, freed from the many combs she usually employed to keep it in place. I reached out to squeeze her hand. Around us, the passengers were in various stages of relief and anger. Many of the women were crying. Russian soldiers moved among them, asking questions and taking notes. One man was shouting at the train conductor, telling him he should have attacked the thieves
and defended us all. The train conductor was ashen, oblivious to the irate passenger as he stared off into the forest, as if he expected the thieves to run back out. Suddenly, he pitched forward and vomited all over the ground.
I turned away, my own stomach cramping in sympathy.
‘Ladies,’ said a voice near my elbow. I whipped around.
‘Apologies.’ The man held up his hands. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He was dressed in a grey uniform, a medal bar dangling over his breast pocket. The chevron insignia and the red stars on his collar distinguished him from the other officers moving about. There was a coldness in the line of his features, the way his deep-set brown eyes turned down at the corners. I had seen eyes like that before in the faces of my uncle’s colleagues. They were the eyes of someone who is used to having their orders obeyed.
‘You are a lieutenant,’ I said, unable to suppress my knowledge. It was one of the only things that had interested me at my uncle’s State dinners: picking out the colonels and officers, the police captains and sergeants based on their uniforms. A small game to hold back the flood of boredom that always accompanied such events.
‘Very good.’ He straightened his shoulders. Even at full height, he was shorter than me. I found myself bending slightly at the knees so I would not be looking down at him, and being thankful for the flat sandals strapped to my feet. ‘Lieutenant Dimitri Lubov,’ he said. He had a broad nose with large nostrils; what Olga called a ‘Lenin’ nose. His chin wobbled as he smiled. ‘Tartu division.’
‘What took you so long to get here?’ Olga rasped.
‘There are no soldiers stationed here in Tiksoja. Although that may change now.’ The smile left his features, replaced by a hard expression of distaste.
‘Who were they?’ I glanced back at the forest. The fir trees swayed slightly, their branches creaking in the sudden breeze. Soldiers with rifles were stationed at the tree line.
‘Thieves. Bandits.’ Lieutenant Lubov sniffed. The wind riffled his black hair. He jammed it down flat with his palm before raking it back into place with long fingers. ‘Resistors and saboteurs. They call themselves Forest Brothers. Usually hole up together like foxes in some stinking bunker. Rest assured, the Soviet army will find them.’
‘I’ve never heard of such a thing,’ Olga said. ‘I thought the Baltics surrendered peaceably.’
‘There was no surrender,’ Lieutenant Lubov said sharply. ‘None was needed. The Baltics have always belonged to Russia. She has just welcomed them back to the fold.’
‘Of course.’ Olga dropped her eyes to study her dusty shoes.
Lieutenant Lubov took out a notebook. ‘I will need your names,’ he said. ‘And a record of everything you saw. Anything you can remember, any details, will help us identify the thieves if they should be so stupid as to show their faces.’
Our names. I wondered if I should lie, but what would be the point? ‘I am Lydia Volkova,’ I said. ‘And this is my companion, Olga Adreevna.’
At my words, Lieutenant Lubov looked up from the notebook, large nostrils flaring like an animal that has caught the scent of prey.
‘You are the Partorg’s daughter?’
‘I am.’
Lieutenant Lubov’s eyebrows lifted. ‘How strange. He did not mention you were coming.’
‘We only sent word yesterday,’ I said. I felt slightly affronted. What business was it of his what arrangements we had made? Perhaps he was my father’s confidante. I wondered if they were close, aware of the disadvantage of being so distant from Papa all these years. At least in Moscow, I knew most of the players. Who preferred flattery to direct questions.
I waited for him to say more, but he merely stared at me intently until I grew uncomfortable.
‘What happens now?’ I said eventually. I shielded my eyes against the sunlight that gleamed on the green paintwork of the train. Sweat was forming on my back, making me glad I had thrown off the bearskin coat before we left the train. Perhaps one of the thieves had snatched it up.
My voice seemed to snap him back. He flipped the notebook closed and pocketed it, his gaze sliding away to the soldiers at the edge of the forest. ‘There will be a short delay while the train is set right,’ he said. ‘And then the driver assures us that the service will continue to Tartu. You should reach there by the afternoon.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘Once they reach their dens they become difficult to track. But I hope I will see you in Tartu. Excuse me.’
‘Wait, Lieutenant.’
He turned back, frowning. Ignoring Olga’s warning squeeze, I pressed forward, close enough to catch the sharp whiff of cologne and cigarettes, mixed with the faint, fading scent of gunpowder.
‘What will they do with them if they are caught? The thieves.’ I was thinking of Kalev and Jaak, imagining them back at their camp or wherever they lived, dividing up the spoils, which would be slightly less after the clemency they showed the young woman.
Lieutenant Lubov’s eyes were hard pebbles. ‘They will be shot. On sight.’
I swallowed hard. ‘No trial?’
Lieutenant Lubov leaned close. I felt the hairs rise on my neck as his breath tickled my skin.
‘We don’t give trials to animals.’
Squaring his shoulders, he strode away.
*
It was past noon when the train finally pulled into Tartu, belching to a stop beside a dusty platform and a peeling timber building that had seen better days.
Footsteps pounded the corridor outside as passengers disembarked, greeting the people waiting for them on the platform and disappearing into the thick coils of steam. I understood their haste, their desire to be away as quickly as possible and to leave the ugly incident of this morning behind. I, too, was eager to forget the cold reality of my first robbery.
Olga was dozing, her mouth half-open. I shook her awake, trying to summon up the energy to gather our things.
We had been lucky. The bandits had found little of value among our belongings, and though we returned to find them scattered about, it had not taken long to repack them. Others – those travelling with jewellery or items easily sold on the black market – were not so fortunate.
We stumbled out onto the platform, as dusty as two cats fresh from an alley scrap. Beside me, Olga clutched her case. She had regained some of her spirit.
‘I hope your papa has been given decent lodgings,’ she said. ‘A man of his stature. I am dreaming of a Tsar bath like the one Catherine the Great presented to Potemkin.’ She half-closed her eyes as if she could see it shimmering in the shabby waiting room nearby; a great granite tub carved from a red monolith. A bath fit for a lover and his Queen.
Despite my exhaustion, I laughed. ‘I doubt Papa has been given such grand utilities, Olga.’
Olga sighed. A breeze raced up the platform. The passengers had largely dispersed, and the few train staff hurried back and forth across the platform, eager to be on their way again. Olga and I stood alone.
I searched for any sign of Papa’s retinue. A car, a guard waiting.
‘You did send the letter, Olga?’ I said. My stomach was beginning to twist itself into knots.
‘Of course!’ My companion sniffed. ‘What do you take me for?’
‘Stay here,’ I said, not wishing to worry her.
As the train released a blast of steam, I made my way to the ticket office. Through the glass, I spied an empty chair. I banged on the glass and called through the window.
Nobody came.
I rapped again.
Nothing.
Panic beat in my chest. With no car to collect us and no way of knowing the location of Papa’s office, we were stranded. Could we walk there or must we drive? Were there trams, or was this city too small for such modern conveniences?
I looked around in despair, taking note of a small square of car park behind the peeling ticket office, weeds poking up between the gravel.
‘There’s no more services today. They’ve all been cancelled,’ said a voice fr
om behind me. I spun around.
Tall. I had to squint up to see his face. Big hands poking out beneath the sleeves of a shabby jacket a few sizes too small; threads hanging down against pale skin flecked with freckles.
I took an involuntary step backwards.
‘Do you work here?’
The man laughed. Was he a man or a boy? It was hard to tell. The too-small jacket made him look like an oversized ragdoll. His hair completed the image; tight brown ringlets that stuck out in different directions. Warm brown eyes set deep in his face that shone when he smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was waiting for a friend. He won’t be able to get through now though, so . . .’
His voice trailed off and he spread his palms helplessly. I studied him as if he were a strange specimen I had never seen before. I felt a tingling in my hands; the first stirrings that my mother was near.
Important, she was saying. This one is important.
I chewed at my lip, allowing my gaze to run across his thin shoulders and down to the ends of his freckled fingers. He did not look important, but I could not force my eyes away. With a jolt I realised I was staring. I felt my face turn hot as a brick left in the hearth.
But the man did not seem offended. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m Estonian. Among other things. Jakob Rebane.’
He held out his hand. I took it quickly, and then let it drop.
‘Lydia Volkova.’
‘Volkova?’ He frowned. ‘Like the Chief of Security.’
‘Yes. He’s my father. You know him, then.’ I felt relieved. If this man knew where my father worked, he could surely direct us there.
‘Know him?’ Jakob blinked rapidly. ‘He’s the Partorg,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Everybody knows him. He has offices on Vaksali Street but I believe he’s most often found at the Grey House. Põder Street.’
I waited for him to speak again, to tell me about my father’s achievements, or his rapport with the local populace. To tell me about the great things Estonia was now achieving beneath Soviet rule. The things I had read about.
Instead, an awkward silence opened up between us.
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