1992
Läänemaa, Estonia
Zara Looks for a Road with an Unusual Number of Silver Willows at Its End
The map was unclear, but Zara found the Risti railway station easily. From there she headed for a road that she thought would take her to Koluvere. At first she ran; she wanted to get away from the nearby houses as quickly as possible, although their windows were still dark. Dogs barked from house to house, and the noise followed her until she reached the Koluvere road. She slowed down to save her strength until she reached her destination, but she still felt a fire under her feet. Guessing by the map, it was about a ten-kilometer trip. She stopped now and then to smoke a cigarette. She had swiped a new pack of cigarettes from the old man. A drawing of an old man smiled at her from the cigarette package. He seemed to be wearing a top hat, but she couldn’t quite make it out in the dark. The forest breathed and coughed around her, her sweat cooled and then warmed again, and every time she stopped she felt the dead princess of Koluvere breathing down her neck. Augusta was her name. Grandmother had told Zara about Princess Augusta, who left from Risti to go to Koluvere Castle, her eyes swollen shut with crying, and then killed herself. It was always colder in the chamber where she died than in the other rooms, and Augusta’s tears trickled down the walls. Black clouds were swimming across the sky like warships, and the moonlight was blinding. The damp went through Zara’s slippers; now and then she imagined that she heard a car and dashed into the woods. She doused one slipper in the ditch, burrs scratched at her skin. There were no junctions in the road, it stretched ahead unbroken, but her thoughts broke apart and reassembled themselves, brightened, then darkened again. She tried to smell the swamp in the air. There should be a swamp somewhere nearby. What were Estonian swamps like? Would she be able to find the right house? Who would be living in it? Did the house even exist anymore? If it didn’t, what was she going to do? Grandmother had told her that when Augusta died a lot of rumors were started. Maybe it wasn’t really suicide. Maybe she was murdered. A doctor had said that she died of a hereditary hemorrhagic disease, but no one believed that because before she died, terrible screams could be heard from the castle, the peasants were petrified with fear, and the cows dried up and the chickens stopped laying eggs for a week. Zara sped up. The soles of her feet hurt, and her lungs were ready to burst. Some said that the czarina had been jealous of the beautiful princess and sent her here as a prisoner. Others thought that she was brought for her own safety, to protect her from an insane husband. In any case, she had died a prisoner, screaming in her misfortune. The map had already slipped Zara’s mind, although it was simple and she had tried to memorize it. Maybe it was so simple that there was nothing about it to remember, but anyway she’d lost it. Why hadn’t anyone helped the princess? Why hadn’t someone helped her get out of the castle, if everyone heard her weeping? Help me, Augusta, help me find my way. Help me, Augusta—it drummed in Zara’s head, and the faces of Augusta, Aliide, and Grandmother mixed together in her mind to make one face, and she didn’t dare to look to the right or the left because the trees in the forest were moving, their limbs were reaching toward her. Did Augusta want Zara to go with her into the swamp, to follow her wherever she was wandering? The first morning mist started to cling to Zara’s cheeks— she should be running, going faster, she had to get there before morning or everyone in the village would see her. She would have to think of some story to tell the person who lived in Grandmother’s house now. And then she would look for Aliide Truu. Maybe someone who lived in the house could help her. She had to think of a story to tell Aliide, too, but the only story that she could keep in her head in its entirety was the story of Augusta, the crazy, weeping princess. Maybe Zara was crazy, too, because who else but a crazy person would be running down an unknown road toward a house that she had only heard of, a house whose existence she couldn’t be sure of? A swath of field. A house. She ran past it. Another house. A village. A dog. Barking, from one house to the next. Houses, sheds, barns, and potholes beat their own rhythm with her pulse in the backs of her eyes. Now and then she tried to walk in the ditch, but she kept getting tangled up in barbed wire and blackberry bushes, so she tugged herself free and went back to the road, the damp smell of limestone, puddles, and potholes. She tried to run faster than the dogs were barking. The morning mist pressed against her skin, the fog pressed against her eyes, the night pulled back its drapery, and the boundaries of the unreal village breathed around her. The road to the house would end at a cluster of silver willow trees. An unusually large stand of silver willow trees. And there was a big block of stone where the road began. Would Zara’s story begin at the gate of that house, a new story, her own story?
PART FOUR
Liberated, meanwhile, to be born into another world.
—Paul-Eerik Rummo
October 1949
Free Estonia!
I’m reading through Ingel’s letters again. I miss my girls. I feel a bit of relief knowing that things are going so well for them way out there. They’ve sent tons of letters. The last time people were sent to Siberia, they only sent one or two letters a year, and the news wasn’t good.
I should be cutting some wood for barrels. Now would be the right time to do it—the moon will start waxing soon and then it’ll be too late. When am I going to get the barrels made for the new house? When can I sing again? My throat will forget how to do it before long.
I can feel the full moon, and I can’t sleep. I should tell Liide it’s a good time to cut firewood. Wood cut on the full moon dries well. But that husband she’s got doesn’t understand these things—he doesn’t know any more about farmwork than Liide does about handwork. There was a hole in one of the socks Ingel made for me, and Liide stitched it up. Now it’s completely unwearable.
If only I had some of Ingel’s dewberry juice. Truman should have come by now. I feel like kicking the wall, but I can’t.
Hans Pekk, son of Eerik, Estonian peasant
1992
Läänemaa, Estonia
How Can They See to Fly in the Dark?
The onions in the pot had softened enough—Aliide added sugar, salt, and vinegar. The horseradish made both Aliide’s and Zara’s eyes water, and Aliide opened the window to let the breeze in. Zara decided to ask a direct question. Maybe it would be best to start with Martin, not ask about Grandmother yet. Before she had time to think about it, the sound of a car approaching made both women jump.
“Are you expecting guests?”
“No. It’s a black car.”
“Oh my God, they’re here.”
Aliide slammed the front door closed and locked it. Then she hurried to latch the pantry and pull the curtains closed. “They’ll leave when they see that no one’s here.” “No, they won’t.”
“Of course they will. Why would they sit around in the yard if they can see that no one’s home? No one saw you come here. Or did they?”
“No.”
“Well, then. You just stay inside until tomorrow. In case they hang around the village. There’s no place to hang around anyway, in a half-deserted village.”
Zara shook her head vehemently. The men would know for sure that she was here if they saw that the house was empty. They would imagine she was hiding out here, they would break in and go through the whole house, and find . . .
“They’ll hurt you!”
“Calm down, Zara. Calm down. Now do as I tell you.” Considering her frailty, Aliide looked resolute, younger and older at the same time. Her gait as she walked to the cupboard was ordinary, her hand grasped the corner of the cabinet with practiced familiarity. “Come and help me.”
They dragged the cupboard away from the wall and Aliide tugged open a door.
Aliide thrust the hesitating girl into the little room and then put her hand to her chest. It was thumping. She couldn’t manage to make herself drink a whole mug of water, but she drank a little, wiped her face with a tissue, and tied a scarf over her head. Her hair had got so wet with
sweat that it might have been suspicious if she left it uncovered—the men might think she was sweating from fear—if those were the men that were after Zara, that is. What if it was the boys who threw stones and sang songs outside her window in the car out there? What if they had decided to make one last trip to Aliide’s house and finish her off? She could hear the car approaching cautiously—the driver must have noticed the holes in the road.
In the little room, Zara stretched her arms out straight— her fingers touched the wall on either side. A smell of earth. Damp earth. Damp walls. Musty, low-oxygen air, mixed with mold and rust. Here she was. If they did something to Aliide, she might never get out. Would she shout then, here I am? No, she wouldn’t shout. She would remain here, and she’d never be able to tell Grandmother what it was like here now. Why did the time have to be cut so short? She should have been harder, a little more like Pasha. Pasha would get Aliide to say whatever he wanted. He would hit her, and she’d sing. Maybe Zara should have used those kinds of tricks, maybe then she would have found out why Aliide was so angry at Grandmother and why Zara’s mother claimed she didn’t have an aunt. If Aliide had been a little less kind, if she hadn’t poured her a cup of coffee from the percolator or made a bath for her, Zara could have been more aggressive. It had been such a long time since anyone had treated her that way. It had made her soft when she should have been hard; she should have remembered how little time there was and acted accordingly.
Zara pressed her ear to the crack of the door. Soon they would knock on the front door. Was Aliide planning to let them in?
Aliide opened the curtains, spread a magazine on the table, and poured herself some coffee, just as if she had been sitting there reading Nelli Teataja and eating breakfast, perfectly calm. Had the girl left any sign that she’d been in the kitchen? No, nothing. Aliide hadn’t even had time to pour coffee for both of them. If they’re coming, they might as well all come—Mafia thugs, soldiers—Reds and Whites —Russians, Germans, Estonians—let them come. Aliide would survive. She always had.
Her hands weren’t shaking. The shaking that had started that night in the town hall had ended when her body got old enough. Old enough that no one would ever bother her the way they did in the town hall. And since Talvi moved away she didn’t have anyone to feel afraid for. Aliide’s wrist shook. Fine, now she had someone in the little room again, someone to worry about. Firm-fleshed and silkycomplexioned, smelling like a young girl. And skittish like one, too. Had she looked like that back then? Had she held an arm in front of her breasts, been frightened by trivial things, looked wildly about at every sudden noise? Her stomach turned with disgust at the girl again.
The car seemed to be stopping at the edge of the field. Two unfamiliar men got out. They weren’t village boys. They weren’t boys at all. What were they up to out there? Admiring the landscape? Maybe they were sizing up the woods. They lit their cigarettes, unperturbed. Just like before. The men in the chrome-tanned boots were always calm at first. Aliide’s shoulder twitched. She put her hand on it. Her scarf was wet at the temples.
There was a knock at the door. Commanding blows. The blow of a man used to giving commands. Tomato and onion relish on the stove. A grater on a plate. Half a tomato unchopped. Aliide shoved the tomato and the knife among the shredded herbs and grabbed the grater. Everything in the kitchen looked like she was in the middle of canning, and she had panicked and spread the table to look like coffee hour. There was another blow to the door. Aliide pushed the horseradish plate to the side of the table where the drawer was—and in the drawer, Hans’s Walther—then she breathed in a lungful of horseradish fumes, and the burning spread, making her eyes water, and she wiped them dry and opened the door. The hinges squeaked, the curtains fluttered, the wind pushed through Aliide’s housedress, and she felt the metal door handle in her fingers. The sun shone sharply in the yard. A man greeted her. Behind him stood another man, older, who also greeted her, and Aliide smelled the scent of a KGB officer through the horseradish. It wafted toward her like a musty cellar and made the wind that blew in the door bitter. Aliide started to breathe through her mouth. She knew men like these. Men with that kind of posture, men who know how to punish a woman, and they were here to get a woman, and punish her. People with an insolent bearing, who smile broadly with gold teeth, stuffed into their uniforms, with their cap visors level, knowing that no one can deny them what they want. The kind of people who wear boots to trample anyone who gets in their way.
The younger man wanted to come in. Aliide stepped aside, went to sit on the side of the table where she had put the plate of horseradish, and put the grater down on the plate. Her left hand lay open on the oilcloth; her right hand was in her lap. It was a short distance from there to the drawer.
The man sat down without being invited and asked for some water. KGB didn’t come into the kitchen—evidently he was walking around the house. Aliide suggested he help himself from the pail—fresh water from the pump. “We have good water and a deep well,” Aliide said.
The man got up and swigged back a pailful of water. The horseradish was making his eyes water, too, and he rubbed them, his gestures becoming more peevish. Aliide was tense, her heart tightened, but the man chatted about this and that, sauntered carelessly around the kitchen, stopped at the cupboard door and kicked it open. The door struck the wall, and the wall gave a little. The kick of the boot shook mud onto the floor. The man walked to the doorway but didn’t go any farther into the house, he came back in the kitchen, strode over to the refrigerator and looked at the papers on top of it, stepped toward the sideboard and picked objects up off the shelf—took the lids off of jars, turned a coffee cup around in his hands, a Finnish shampoo bottle, Imperial Leather soap. Then he lit a cigarette—a Marlboro —and told her he was with the police. “Pasha Aleksandrovich Popov,” he said, and handed
Aliide his identification papers.
“There are a lot of falsified papers around,” Aliide said, shoving the papers back at him.
“Yes, there are,” Pasha said, and laughed. “Skepticism is sometimes healthy. But you know it would be best for you to listen to me now. For your own safety.”
“There’s nothing dangerous here.”
“Have you seen a strange girl?”
Aliide said she hadn’t and complained of the uneventfulness of the countryside. The man sniffed and narrowed his eyes to force the water out of them. Horseradish burned in the air. Aliide answered his gaze; she didn’t look away, didn’t look away. His lower eyelids reddened, mucus accumulated in the corners of Aliide’s eyes, and the staring continued until the man went to the door and opened it. The wind blew inside. Aliide’s shoulder twitched. The man stood in the doorway for a moment facing the yard, his leather coat puffed up in the breeze; then he turned his cold, soothed eyes, took a stack of photos out of his pocket, and spread them on the table.
“Have you seen this woman? We’re looking for her.”
Zara didn’t dare to move. The voices carried poorly to the room where she was, but they did carry. She heard Aliide speak Russian when she opened the front door, greeting them, being polite. Pasha said that they had driven a long way and they were thirsty, and kept chatting about one thing and another. The voices approached and receded, and then Aliide asked if his friend liked gardening. Pasha didn’t understand. Aliide said she could see his friend through the window walking around her garden. Lavrenti was, of course, checking out the house. It must be Lavrenti. Or maybe Pasha had come with someone else. Not likely. Pasha was used to Lavrenti’s behavior; he was a little simple, but you shouldn’t take any notice of it. Aliide hoped he wouldn’t trample her flower beds.
“Don’t worry, he likes gardens.”
Pasha’s voice suddenly sounded very near. Zara froze. “So have you seen any strange girl around here?” Zara held her breath. The dust caught in her dry throat.
She couldn’t cough, couldn’t cough. Aliide answered that the area had been calm—an outsider would have been noticed
immediately. Pasha repeated his question. Aliide was startled by his stubborn persistence. A young girl? A strange young girl? Why in the world would she have seen her? Pasha’s words were unclear. He said something about light hair. Aliide’s voice could be heard clearly. No, she hadn’t seen any light-haired girl here. Pasha had a photo of the girl with him. Which photo? Was he going all around the country showing people a picture of her? What kind of picture? Pasha’s voice came near again and Zara was afraid her pulse would be audible through the wall. Pasha had such sharp ears.