Lace Weaver

by Lauren Chater

  His words hit me like a slap. I saw the pain register in his eyes, a mirror image of my own misery. He snatched up my hand even as I swivelled my legs sideways, ready to take flight and leave it all behind; my brother, the Russian businessmen, the thick tantalising scent of coffee.

  ‘Kati, wait. I’m sorry.’ Jakob’s voice trembled. ‘Did you hear me? I said I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I—’ He crushed my hand between his own. ‘I apologise. A thousand times. Just listen to what I have to say. Please. Just stay a little longer. I have to talk to you. It’s important.’ He sighed, then continued. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought you here. I just thought you deserved something nice. A treat, before . . . I know you think I don’t understand, that I can’t possibly guess how hurt you were when they chose to send me to university, but I do know. I know and I’m sorry.’

  My brother’s eyes were warm. I heard the sincerity in his voice. He had never apologised for what happened two years ago, when my parents had drawn us into the kitchen one cold December day to inform us that Jakob would be moving to the university in Tartu to study teaching; he had just scraped by with enough marks to get in.

  ‘It’s not my choice!’ Jakob had raged later when my parents were out of earshot. ‘You think I want to spend my life teaching kids how to tie their laces? I want to travel and meet new people.’ I had watched numbly as he scattered the embers of the fire with the poker, churning them so the sparks flew up the chimney, swirling like angry fireflies. Was it fair that Jakob was the one charged with passing on our history and our special tales? Jakob, who mixed up all his dates. Jakob, who was more content when he was chatting with strangers than up to his elbows in books.

  Now my brother bowed his head. When we were children, we had sometimes played that Jakob was my student and I his teacher. When he struggled with a piece of homework, such as an essay on the liberation of the serfs during the Estonian Enlightenment, I was the one who helped him, guiding him gently towards the answers while letting him feel he was in charge.

  ‘What I said to you before is true,’ he said. ‘The money isn’t from Papa. It’s from . . . another source. That’s what I need to talk to you about. I need your help, Kati. Please. Stay.’

  Sighing, I sank back into my chair. ‘Tell me everything, then,’ I said, reaching for the kringle. I bit into the pastry, and sugar exploded between my lips in a delicate puff and then melted on my tongue. I must have made a small noise of pleasure because Jakob laughed. It had been so long since I’d tasted anything so good. In a few moments, the pastry was gone and only small flecks of sugar remained. I dabbed at them with my finger, the sticky paste of the ground walnuts clogging my throat.

  My brother took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been suspended.’

  ‘Suspended,’ I repeated.

  Jakob nodded. He crossed his arms. There was a note of defiance in his voice. ‘I’m not ashamed of that part.’

  I rubbed my forehead, trying to process the words. A lump of pastry was lodged in my throat and I sipped at the coffee Jakob had bought me. The brew was as smooth as silk, but it didn’t bring the kind of comfort I remembered. ‘And they suspended you for what?’

  ‘Unsavoury connections. It could be worse,’ he said, seeing my shocked expression. ‘They only suspected my involvement. If they knew for sure, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you. I’d be in a cell at Tartu Prison.’

  ‘Oh, Jakob.’ I pushed the plate away, feeling sick. ‘What exactly have you done?’

  Jakob glanced around as a roar went up from the businessmen. I suspected they had moved from coffee onto the bottles of liquor lining the walls behind the counter.

  My brother wet his lips. ‘I joined a group,’ he said, sitting up a little straighter. ‘Of resistance fighters.’

  ‘Forest Brothers.’ The words were bitter on my tongue.

  Jakob nodded. ‘They sent a recruiter around to the dorms a few months ago. Kati, it was Oskar. You remember what they said about him, what they accused him of?’

  He paused, waiting for me to answer, his expression revealing only mild wonder. He’d been away at school when the bodies of Oskar’s mother and sister were found. He and Oskar had never been very close, but even Jakob had agreed in private that it was impossible for Oskar to have killed them. We had discussed it only once, in the safety of the barn.

  ‘I do.’ I ran my thumb along the edge of the table, avoiding his eyes.

  Jakob nodded. ‘It was all a sham, as we suspected.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Oskar told me. The Russians killed them. And Oskar ran. He’s been working with others all this time, building a resistance group. I’ve been helping them; Torvid, too. Selling things for them on the black market, amassing arms. They gave me a car – I use it to run them back and forth between towns when it’s not safe for them to walk or catch lifts with strangers. Sometimes I take diplomats or officials to their offices, pretending I’m a guide. Anything I overhear, any scrap of information from outside, I feed it back to Oskar.’

  ‘Jakob!’ I lifted my hands to my mouth. ‘Spying?’

  ‘Don’t say it like that.’ Jakob’s eyes grew stony. ‘It’s not just me. There are other students, too. We pulled down all the Soviet flags in the university square one night and replaced them with Estonian ones.’ He smirked. ‘That was my idea. We made the flags ourselves, by dying some old scarves and sewing them together. You should have seen the Partorg’s face! He was visiting the university the next day with some important diplomats from Moscow . . .’ Jakob’s voice trailed off as he caught sight of my expression. ‘You don’t have to look so disappointed. I don’t regret joining.’ He set his jaw stubbornly. ‘If anything, I think they are our only option. We can’t go on for much longer, licking the Russians’ boot heels, subjugating ourselves to the whims of Stalin and the Partorg. I just need you to help me convince Papa to join, too.’ He raised his chin. ‘You see, I don’t plan on going back to university. Torvid will; he’s gone home to his parents in Tallinn to lie low and then he’ll come back next term when the storm is over. But not me. I’m going to join my friends in the forest. Live there, sleep there. I’m going to do everything I can to help win this war with the Partisans that the Soviets have started. What good will a degree in teaching do me when all the jobs go to Russians anyway? How will staying at university help our country? Kati, Papa has always listened to you; you have a way of softening him. So, that’s it. That’s my plan. We will return to the farmhouse together and I’ll collect my things. This time next week I’ll be a real resistance fighter.’

  He sat back, waiting for me to speak.

  A real resistance fighter. My brother’s words chilled my skin. ‘Have you . . . Have you seen Oskar lately?’

  Jakob narrowed his eyes, but he was still smiling. ‘Not for a few weeks. He can be . . . mysterious. General Pilk of the Estonian Home Guard – he is the man in charge of this area – he says Oskar is one of their best fighters, but he takes off sometimes and it’s hard to know where he goes. He is in charge of his own unit. They always come back with all sorts of things to sell and weapons and useful information, so he’s always forgiven. Why?’ Suspicion sharpened his words. ‘You haven’t seen him, have you?’

  I nodded. It seemed that no matter what I did, I could not escape the association with these renegades. First Oskar, now Jakob. There was the scrape of sugar as Jakob stirred his own coffee, the chime of a spoon rebounding against the china.

  ‘He came to the farmhouse last night.’

  Jakob paused, the spoon stilled in his hand. ‘Why would he do that?’

  I shrugged miserably. ‘To do the same thing as you, I suppose. To convince Papa to join this crazy movement that seems to have turned all your heads.’

  ‘That bastard!’ he said. His hand was shaking. The spoon rattled against the saucer as he set it down. ‘He never said he was going to . . . He had no right.’ His face suddenly crumpled, like a child’s. He raised one trembling hand and cupped his forehead. ‘Oh God. He’s ruined eve
rything. What did Papa say?’

  ‘He told him to go away.’ The words brought a fresh wash of guilt. ‘He swore if he ever saw him again, or any of his brethren, he would notify the Partorg and have them all arrested for treason!’

  Jakob was shaking his head. His coffee lay abandoned. ‘This is terrible. Kati, do you think he realises what he’s done?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him to wait until you had spoken to Papa?’

  Jakob gave a mirthless laugh. His face had gone very pale; freckles stood out against the pallor. ‘Oskar does what he wants. Didn’t I already say that?’

  ‘He must have had his reasons for coming to Papa early,’ I ventured.

  Jakob’s head snapped up. ‘Oh, so now you’re defending him?’

  His tone made me prickle. ‘I never said I was defending him! But he mentioned something about . . .’ I lowered my voice. ‘Germans. And parachuters. That they needed somewhere safe to land.’

  My mind was suddenly filled with a vision of our moonlit fields. I heard the hum of planes, the whoosh of parachutes filling with air and saw our farmhouse as if I were circling it from high above, smoke curling up from the chimney, the bright lamplight from the windows like shining beacons against the oily blackness of the night.

  A chair scraped against the floor. Jakob was rummaging in his pockets. He threw a bunch of roubles down onto the table. His mouth was a thin, taut line. ‘Come on. We’re going home.’

  I jumped to my feet. ‘Now?’

  Jakob said nothing but began to push towards the exit. I hurried to keep up with him, bumping my hip against a sharp table edge and almost sending a chair crashing. The look Jakob threw me was not of reproach but one of surprising softness. When I reached him, he linked his arm through mine and pushed open the door with one hand. He waited until we were out in the street until he spoke, and then his voice was low, soft in my ear. ‘Have courage,’ he whispered.

  He squeezed my arm, but it did nothing to repel the feeling of dread in my stomach.

  Wallpaper Pattern

  Lydia

  ‘There you are.’

  In the stark reception room at Papa’s offices, Lieutenant Lubov stood smiling behind a polished walnut desk. His uniform was clean again after this morning’s incident in Tiksoja, the grey suit pressed. His dark hair had been oiled into place. He was a model of Soviet perfection; the kind of man the girls at Model School No. 25 would have given anything to meet. But something about him unsettled me. Perhaps he reminded me too much of my uncle: outward friendliness concealing a moody interior. And why was he here? I frowned.

  Struggling with her case behind me, Olga let out a cry of surprise. ‘Lieutenant!’

  He rounded the desk and plucked the case out of her hand, lifting it easily onto a chair nearby.

  ‘We did not expect to see you,’ I said. ‘What happened to the bandits? Did you catch them?’

  ‘No.’ For a moment, his visage slipped. I caught a flash of irritation in his eyes before he concealed it. ‘They escaped. There did not seem any point lingering.’ He held out his hand for my case. I pulled it closer. Lieutenant Lubov let his hand fall, his smile still fixed in place. ‘I thought I would come and file my report here in person, though.’

  ‘You must have rushed through your paperwork.’

  Lieutenant Lubov shrugged. ‘Paperwork is never-ending in my job. I owe you an apology.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. I should have offered you both a lift from Tiksoja. I should not have let you endure the rest of the train ride unescorted. Two ladies, far from home, one of them the Partorg’s daughter.’

  I studied him. ‘We managed, Olga, didn’t we? A man at the station was kind enough to give us a lift. An Estonian,’ I added. I noticed a muscle flicker in Lieutenant Lubov’s cheek.

  ‘Ah.’ His smile had faded a little. ‘A small warning: you should be careful who you accept lifts from. Those bandits you met earlier? They have friends and families who help them in Tartu and the villages roundabouts. Sometimes they even dress as women to conceal their identities. They have their own network of spies. Do you by chance recall this individual’s name?’ He took out his notebook. ‘I can run a check. He may already be on a list of people with unsavoury connections.’

  I opened my mouth to tell him but paused, remembering Joachim. My heart squeezed tightly as Jakob’s questions floated back to me. They had been quietly probing but nothing like an interrogation. I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry. He didn’t tell me his name.’

  Lieutenant Lubov stared at me a second longer and then seemed to let the thought drop. He pocketed the notebook. ‘No matter. Let me show you upstairs to your father’s office, then. I’m sure he will be delighted to see you.’

  His words sent a chill across my skin. I hoped he was right, but the lack of reception at the train station made me wonder if Olga’s letter had reached him yet. My letters had always gone through my maid, who I presumed sent them on to the correct bureau for processing. Had I misjudged the time it would take for my letter to arrive? What if Papa was taken off guard? Then I gathered my courage. This man was my father. Your loving Papochka. He would not have written that if he did not miss me. I think of you often. Those were not the words of a man who had forgotten his only child. They were perhaps the words of a man who had to comply with directives, a man who must put his position before his family. But they were not a rejection. I had to believe Papa would protect me. I tried hard to suppress the churning nerves in my stomach.

  Everything would be all right. I was here. Mama had called me.

  I was hardly aware of the steps Lieutenant Lubov led us up to a thick oak door. A brass plaque announcing my father’s name sat at my eyeline.

  Lieutenant Lubov knocked smartly and waited for a response.

  ‘Come in!’ a voice called. It was a stern voice. Imperious. A voice used to being obeyed. I waited for a feeling of recognition, a connection to the voice’s owner. But I felt nothing.

  Lieutenant Lubov opened the door. The room was a haze of warm colours; green leather chairs, a timber desk. Hundreds of books lined up in neat rows in glass-fronted timber cabinets. A man sat behind the desk. When he looked up, his spectacles flashed, little silver half-moons reflecting the light from the window.

  ‘Yes?’

  I hesitated. I wanted to step forward but my feet would not obey.

  I looked around to Olga. She was smiling.

  ‘Yes?’ the man said again. ‘What is it, Lieutenant?’

  Lieutenant Lubov cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me for interrupting, Captain. But your daughter is here.’

  The man behind the desk blinked. He laid down the pen in his hand, placing it carefully in the centre of the documents stacked before him and then he stood up, scraping his chair back. ‘My daughter?’

  Footsteps. He was coming towards us. The brass buttons shone on his uniform. His beard was speckled with white hairs. Up close, I realised he was old; much older than I had imagined. I could not place him with the image I remembered of Mamochka. The young woman she had been, full of spirit. I forced my legs to move, so we came face to face in front of the bookshelf. He peered at me over the top of his glasses. A long nose. A heavy brow that jutted out over his eyes, forming a cliff to which his grey eyebrows clung. I tried to remember the picture I had drawn of him, the one still hanging on my wall in the House on the Embankment. But the picture would not reconcile with this stranger. It was a child’s fond remembrance, each pencil stroke a wish of longing. It was not reality.

  I found my voice. ‘Papochka?’

  I was eight years old again. The meeting hall of the Octoberists’ group had high ceilings. It smelled of pine sap and varnish. The timber had been recently cut, built specifically for our private group, and the scent of the forest lingered in the wood. My papa’s face was shadowed, but I knew he was smiling. Papa was proud of me. He had taken time away from his important work to come to my ceremony. His fingers brushed against my sh
irt as he pinned the badge on my scarf. Always ready!

  ‘It’s me, Papa,’ I said now. I tried to smile. ‘It’s Lydia.’

  He said nothing, just continued to stare at me.

  ‘Captain?’ Lieutenant Lubov looked from me to my father. ‘Are you quite all right?’

  My papa ran his tongue between his lips. ‘Leave us,’ he said sharply. His gaze darted to Olga. ‘Take the woman with you.’

  I heard Olga begin to speak before Lieutenant Lubov hurried her out, pulling the door closed firmly behind him.

  I waited for Papa to reach for me, to embrace me. But he simply stood, staring, his arms hanging limp by his sides.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he said at last. His face was twisted up, as though he had drunk week-old tea and the shrivelled skin was clinging to the roof of his mouth.

  ‘Olga sent a letter,’ I said. I could hear the quiver in my voice. ‘Letting you know we were coming.’

  ‘I did not receive it,’ he said. He sounded incredulous. ‘The communications lines have been busy. Your uncle knew?’

  I hesitated. But this was not the moment for secrets. This was the time for revelation, for all things to be made clear. ‘No,’ I said, sounding bolder than I felt. ‘I planned to let him know once we arrived. It did not seem necessary to tell him. After all, I am grown up, aren’t I?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘You aren’t pleased to see me,’ I said. The words were painful but I said them anyway. Adults did not shrink from telling the truth. They swallowed their bitterness and their disappointment. That was what Mama had done; but in her case, it had been a draught, medicine crushed into liquid form, pounded down until the flakes were small enough to dissolve on her tongue. I was not Mama, though. I was myself and I wanted to live. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We should have waited. But we’re here now.’

  He drew in a deep breath. ‘There’s been a mistake.’

  I tried to answer, but my tongue felt too big for my mouth. Suddenly, understanding made the words come. ‘I know about Mama,’ I said. ‘I know how she died. It wasn’t your fault.’