Lace Weaver

by Lauren Chater

  ‘There will never be a time like this again.’ The lamplight glowed on Oskar’s face. The soft expression he had worn earlier when he’d spoken about my parents was gone, replaced by a hard look of determination. I had seen him like this before, during our school days when some of the boys had waited behind the trees to pelt him with acorns as we walked home, calling out insults about his mother’s poverty, asking if he even remembered his papa. Oskar had ignored them all, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  ‘One day,’ he had told me between gritted teeth, ‘when I’m a carpenter, they will be begging me to build their houses and fill them with fine furniture and I will refuse.’

  The boys’ taunting laughter had followed us, but Oskar would not look back. He’d taken my gloved hand, wrapping it in the crook of his arm to keep me warm. But the fierce intensity in his face had made me shiver. How much of that boy was left in him now? Perhaps more than I had guessed. Perhaps that fierceness had kept him alive this past year.

  ‘Right now, the Russians will be distracted,’ he said. ‘Every Russian guard and soldier will be involved in some way. Once the dust settles, there’ll be nobody left to fight here when Hitler finally makes his move. We know these forests. So do the other partisan groups. We know there are people ready to fight in Latvia and Lithuania, too. Do you want your men stumbling around, circling each other, uncertain of which direction to shoot in?’

  I saw the Germans weighing up his words. The younger man threw a long, agonised look at the radio. ‘But if we are wrong . . .’

  ‘If we are wrong, I will take full responsibility.’ Oskar turned away, moving towards the back of the room where long wooden crates rested against the packed-earth wall. ‘If we are wrong, I will personally hand myself over to the Sturmbannführer for whatever punishment he decides I deserve.’

  The other partisans groaned. ‘No, Oskar,’ said one. Oskar silenced him with a glance, then turned back to the crates. He lifted the lid of one with his foot. It creaked open to reveal gleaming rifles. The partisans glanced at each other, their young faces brightening at the prospect of a fight.

  ‘So, we stay here and make contact while you enjoy your hunt.’ The German officer sounded resigned.

  Oskar lifted a rifle from the crate. Weighing it in his hands, he ran his thumb gently over its ridged curves. My breath shortened. The sight of him holding the gun made the blood pound in my head. ‘We cannot hope to get to town to warn others,’ he said. ‘Besides, the Russians are paranoid and would kill everyone – the trains would be chock full of bodies, not people.’ My stomach tightened as I thought of Etti, Aunt Juudit. The others from our knitting circle. Oskar and Jakob, lying dead in the forest.

  Oskar hefted the gun onto his shoulder. ‘But we can give them a chance if they make it this far. We will fan out towards the edge of the forest.’

  ‘We have to find our cousin, Etti,’ Jakob said. ‘She’s expecting a child. And her mother is an older woman. She’ll find it hard to run.’

  Oskar shook his head. ‘If they make it to the forest, we’ll help them. But they are two among many hundreds, Jakob. I’m sorry.’

  Although his words were aimed at my brother, Oskar looked at me. His eyes were full of sympathy but the words were an ice shard through my heart.

  He turned towards the young men who were already lining up and began to hand out the rifles. ‘Jaak. Joosep.’

  One by one, the boys took the weapons and began to rummage in another crate for ammunition. The Germans were already turning the dials on the radio, chattering in German, and I caught only snatches of what they said; my German was limited to the little we had been taught at school. All I could think about was the sound of Mama’s body hitting the earth. I could not bear the thought of Aunt Juudit or Etti, or my unborn cousin, suffering the same fate.

  ‘Jakob.’ Oskar held out the rifle. A hesitant look passed over Jakob’s face and he glanced at me, his shoulders hunching guiltily. But a moment later he was reaching out a hand to grip the metal tightly.

  Oskar nodded. ‘We were right to trust you,’ he said. The ghost of a smile flitted over his features.

  I wanted to cry out and rip the weapon from Jakob’s hands. What if he was killed? Then I would truly be alone.

  He ducked his head as he joined the others filing out into the other room, avoiding my narrow gaze.

  ‘I will look after him.’ Oskar’s shoulder brushed against mine. I could not bring myself to look at him, so I focused on the collar of his jacket. It was flecked with mud that had dried and formed a speckled crust over the fabric. ‘I will keep him at the back, close by me. I swear to you. Kati. Look at me.’

  I raised my chin, summoning every scrap of fear and anger so I would not be tempted to cry.

  Oskar’s mouth twitched. ‘I promise.’ He raised his hand and tucked a strand of hair off my face with his thumb. I could smell the rifle on his fingertips, an oily bitter scent.

  ‘Just see that you do,’ I said. ‘Please.’

  Oskar nodded. ‘I don’t want you here,’ he said, straightening. His tone was authoritative; the voice he had used before with the partisan boys under his command. ‘It’s too dangerous. There are no exits, if you’re caught. You’re to go with Hilja. There’s a safety point not far away. That’s where people will flee to, when they get wind of what the Russians are doing. Once there’s enough of you, Hilja will take you all into the deep woods to the camp. It’s where we try to keep the young and the elderly. Those who aren’t fit enough to fight. It’s safer; fewer patrols there. And there are guards and places to escape to, if you’re found. We’ll join you there when we can.’

  ‘Where is the safe point?’

  Oskar hesitated. ‘My old farmhouse.’

  I felt myself sway, as if the ground were buckling beneath me. Oskar’s hand shot out and caught me. His fingers locked around my wrist, and he stroked his thumb across my racing pulse.

  ‘I can’t go back there.’ I heard the lowing of cows. Smelled the thick rivers of sticky caramel. Saw the blood staining the floorboards. ‘Too many ghosts,’ I whispered.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Oskar smiled sadly. ‘My mother and Aime are long gone. They won’t come back, not in any form. And I’m not intent on becoming a ghost myself.’

  ‘You promise?’

  Oskar glanced around swiftly. The room was empty. We were alone.

  Shouldering the rifle, he stepped towards me, slid his arms around my waist and kissed me swiftly, his lips gently touching mine before he pulled away.

  ‘I promise,’ he said. ‘No secrets. You see? I do remember. You will listen to Hilja, won’t you?’

  My heart thudded in my chest. I want so badly for you to stay here, I thought. But I could hear the Germans murmuring and feet shuffling as the men waited outside for Oskar to lead them. I made myself nod stiffly.

  Moments later, I heard Oskar’s voice in the corridor outside.

  My throat ached, raw with pain, everything I had not said trapped inside.

  Ladybird Pattern

  Lydia

  ‘I need to get home.’

  Etti’s voice was soft, home drawn out on a breath so quiet it was almost a whisper. If we had not been huddled together with Olga behind the window of the Partorg’s apartment, watching the shadowy forms of deportees being marched past the fence, I might not have realised she had spoken at all.

  The sound of shuffling feet and voices shouting orders in Russian had lessened now, changing from a steady flow of noise to a faint hum, like the static on a wireless. None of us had spoken as the horror played out in the street. Men and women. Children and elderly people, carrying walking sticks and shuffling with difficulty down the steps to where the cars were waiting. The soldiers spared no one but herded them all into waiting wagons, destined for the train station. We heard them shouting in Russian as they evicted people from their homes.

  ‘No razors! No weapons of any kind! One suitcase only! Davai: hurry! The train is leaving! Davai!’
>
  I bit my lip hard, recalling it all.

  My fathers had caused this. Both of them; the real and the imposter.

  ‘You’re safer here.’ But even as I said the words, I heard the lie in them. Who was I to comfort Etti?

  ‘Mama will need me. What if her friends have been taken?’ Etti’s face, when she turned towards me, was haggard, her eyes circled by shadows. As I watched, she flinched and closed them, pressing down on her belly as if it pained her.

  ‘I think you should stay,’ I repeated. ‘Olga, don’t you agree?’

  My companion looked small and shrunken in her worn dressing gown. ‘I think so, yes. I remember what it was like, in the Revolution. The streets were full of gunfire.’ She cinched her dressing gown tighter around her waist. ‘Whatever is happening out there, at least if you stay here, there is less danger of being shot.’

  Etti tilted up her chin. ‘You don’t know my mother. She will panic, grow angry. She might say something ridiculous, trying to defend the others. No.’ She shook her head. ‘I have to go to her. I’ve no choice.’

  I began to protest but she raised a hand and then hurried to the kitchen, emerging a moment later with her basket. With one hand, she pulled the edge of her shawl up so that it half-hid her face.

  ‘Lock the door once I am gone, and stay inside,’ she said. ‘No matter what you hear.’

  She threw a fearful glance towards the window. Outside, the wind had begun to blow. Shadowy figures drifted past the gate, blurred shapes moving against the purple twilight. I could feel her terror as if it were my own, a place just beyond the threshold of the doorway.

  The despair in her face made me think of Joachim. It seemed like so long ago now. Could it only have been days? I knew I would never forget his bloodless lips, the words he had mouthed at me. And the way people had turned away until the car moved off with him inside. All those faces averted, as if he had already ceased to exist.

  And I had turned away, too. Would I ever forgive myself for letting him go?

  ‘Wait!’

  Etti jumped, her hand already on the door frame.

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Lida! You can’t.’ Olga tugged at my arm. ‘What would your mother say? She would want you to stay safe!’

  ‘I don’t care.’ Olga gasped. I softened my voice. ‘I’m sorry, Olga.’ I pressed my hands together to stop them shaking, filled with the memory of Joachim’s desperate face. ‘I have to do this. I’ll be back as quickly as possible. I’ll just see Etti home. I promise.’ I tried to dig up a smile for her but it wouldn’t come.

  Olga stared at me, seemingly robbed of breath. Then she moved quicker than I thought possible, clomping up the stairs without a backward glance. Etti and I exchanged looks.

  Moments later, Olga appeared wrapped in the enormous chestnut bear fur, her tiny frame making the coat seem even larger as it trailed on the floor after her. There was a determined look in her eyes. Kissing Olga’s cheek, I turned back to Etti, still waiting at the door for us to escort her into the night.

  I am doing this for you, Joachim, I thought, gritting my teeth, before we stepped outside into the dusk.

  Moth Stitch

  Kati

  Hilja did not utter a word until we reached the clearing and Oskar’s farmhouse. She moved silently, slipping through the trees like a spirit. I followed as best I could, tripping sometimes, trying to imagine we were simply two friends walking together, to push down the fear of being discovered by Soviet patrols. Finally, she stopped at the edge of the trees and straightened up, her hands on her hips, eyes roving across the glade as she searched for signs of life.

  The house was a shadow against the dark trees. Hilja clicked on her torch, its beam disturbing a fox. I caught a glimpse of its bushy tail and red fur against the foliage before it streaked away. She directed the light towards the house, running it across the porch, making silver moons in the windows, past the empty rocking chair where Oskar’s mother used to sit peeling plums for her pickle jars. Everything was still.

  As we waited until Hilja was satisfied enough to switch off the torch, a smell drifted towards us on the wind, filling my nostrils with the ripe scent of rotten fruit laid over an undercurrent of sour decay.

  I lifted my hand to cover my nose, but the stench lingered in the back of my throat as if I’d swallowed it. I gagged, trying to suppress my heaving stomach.

  Hilja grunted and flicked off the torch. The light died – and the day of the murders came back to me in vivid colour.

  Imbi. Aime.

  In the sudden darkness, I had a terrifying delusion that their bodies had never left. Perhaps they were still trapped in there, waiting for me to find them again, their poor corpses buzzing with bloated flies.

  ‘Hilja . . . What is that smell?’

  Hilja sniffed and began to move again, sticking to the darkest shadows, edging closer to the farmhouse.

  ‘Dead animal,’ she said shortly. ‘We leave them around the house to deter patrols from getting too near.’

  ‘It doesn’t deter refugees from seeking help?’

  Hilja didn’t bother to reply. The long grass shivered as she picked her way through it, heading towards the back of the house, passing the half-filled woodpile still stacked against one wall. After gulping in a breath, I moved after her, trying not to be sick, moving as quietly as possible. Despite my best efforts, a family of rats began to squeak noisily as my boots stirred up the pebbles near the woodpile. Hilja flung me a look over her shoulder, but the shadows of the eaves above us hid her face. I could only sense her disapproval, reaching out to me, curling around my legs like tendrils of smoke.

  The back door opened silently when she pushed it, revealing the dark interior of Oskar’s cottage. After a moment’s pause, Hilja reached out and pulled me inside after her, closing the door behind us, sealing us in.

  The blackness inside was all-encompassing. The scent of decaying flesh was less strong with the door closed, but my stomach still gurgled.

  ‘You’ll get used to the smell.’

  Hilja struck a match. From its light, I could see that the windows had been blacked out. The kitchen was as I remembered it, but cobwebs were stranded on the shelves. Sadness pricked at my heart. Imbi Mägi would be so ashamed for people to see her cottage this way, undusted and in such a state. Although it was a small place, she had made it a home for Oskar and Aime. Oskar’s father had made the furniture himself before the illness claimed him. The curtains I had helped Imbi to sew now lay abandoned on the floor, the lace edges yellowed. The benches she had been so proud of were speckled with rodent droppings and dust.

  Hilja set the match to a small stub of candle, then sat down heavily, crossing her legs and leaning her back against the wall. Her face was creased with frown lines. She was older than I had thought, nearing forty I guessed.

  I hovered near the door, unsure whether to stand or sit. I was afraid to look around the cottage. I could feel the presence of Imbi and Aime close by, as if they were ingrained in the walls, the floor. Beneath the smell of rot and decay, I fancied I could still detect the sweet burnt sugar caramelising in a pan.

  ‘You might as well sit down and rest,’ Hilja said, closing her eyes. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’

  The ground was spongy beneath my feet, the floor sticking to my shoes. Water must have worked its way in and swollen the boards. I should have come back, I thought. I should have come back after Imbi and Aime’s bodies were taken away but I had been too afraid. The house had stayed empty. Even the Russian settlers did not want it. It was haunted, they said, and nobody had disagreed. I remembered the NKVD agent’s face as he explained how Oskar must have murdered them and taken off. His skin had not even flushed. He had not stammered. Every word had been delivered perfectly smoothly, every lie told with not a trace of guilt or shame. I’d found myself wondering if he was the one who had shot them, or if he had merely been covering for his colleagues. I was thankful for Papa’s hand on my arm. If
they had seen my rage and my hatred, they would have killed me, too.

  I found a spot on the wall opposite Hilja that felt dry and settled myself, pulling my knapsack into my lap.

  The house creaked and groaned around us. Mice moved in the walls, rustling against the sawdust and timber.

  ‘How do you know him?’

  Hilja’s voice startled me.

  ‘Oskar.’ She opened her eyes, pinning me against the wall with her gaze.

  ‘We’re old friends.’

  ‘Lovers, you mean. I saw you together.’

  I felt myself prickling. ‘That’s not your business.’

  Hilja lifted a shoulder. ‘Maybe not. But Oskar doesn’t need distractions right now.’

  Her words sent a trickle of unease down my spine. ‘I’m sure Oskar can decide what he needs for himself.’

  Hilja pushed herself further up the wall, arching her back. ‘He’s important. Perhaps you didn’t realise. He has a special role to play in the Forest Brothers. Without him, the Germans wouldn’t take us seriously. He’s brought everyone together. When I first met him, he was scared. A boy. Then he killed his first Soviet soldier in a raid on a collective farm up near Rapla. This soldier had been raping workers on the farm, taking whatever, whoever he wanted.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You should have seen Oskar. He was terrifying. Crept up on him when he was eating supper and shot him point blank. Blood and brains all over the walls, along with the mashed potatoes.’

  She paused and her dark eyes bore into mine, unblinking. I glanced away, trying to banish the sudden image of Oskar holding a pistol, blood spattered over his face and hands. Those same hands which had stroked my cheek and held me close not an hour ago. Those same hands I had dreamed about holding this last year. They were the hands of a killer now. How could Oskar not be changed by what he had done? What he had been forced to do?

  The room seemed colder, sour damp rising through the floorboards. I caught the quick flash of triumph in Hilja’s fleeting smile. ‘They tell stories about him,’ she said. ‘The others. Sometimes they call him Kalev.’