1951
Läänemaa, Estonian Soviet
Socialist Republic
The Passport Kept in the Breast Pocket
The next time the movie men came to town, Aliide told Martin she’d like to go with him. Martin was delighted— the last time they came she had stayed home with an asthma attack.
“Will you take me dancing afterward?”
“You bet I’ll take my little mushroom dancing!” The auditorium was hot, and Aliide chose a place for
them near an open window. They could hear the chug of the generator outside. Aliide tried to ascertain how many of the vineyard men were there and which of them would be the most apt to lose their passport today, with Aliide’s help. Happy people marched across the screen in a May Day parade, the leaders of the Kremlin were assembled on the rooftop to wave at the people, and the people waved back. Maybe Koka Heino? A simple man who’d got his papers from the Seevaldi office long ago, and a small invalid’s pension. The documentary ended, and the feature film, Generation of Victors, began. What about Kalle Rumvolt? No, Kalle lived in the kolkhoz, and his place of residence would be on the passport. Aliide didn’t know who to choose, couldn’t make up her mind—after all, she wasn’t sure who had files kept on them or what kind of checkpoints a person would have to go through in Tallinn. Maybe they would call her, in spite of the honey and ham, and check to see just what man this man was. And Hans couldn’t go to the militia here to get it stamped, not under any circumstances. The whole idea was crazy. Why are you leaving the area? Where are you going? Lord knows what would happen if Hans came in there and proceeded to fill out the forms on behalf of Kalle Rumvolt or, worse yet, met someone at the office who recognized him. The whole plan was a dud from the start, and Aliide was as foolish as the movie man, licking that milkmaid sow all over with his eyes as she stood in the back of the room adjusting her hairdo flirtatiously with her strong arms, the flesh that clung to them fluttering in time with her heart, so quick to tremble.
They needed a Tallinn passport.
The movie ended and the dancing began. Buzzing and bustling, the smell of liquor from somewhere. The tittering milkmaid once again hanging around near the movie men. Aliide found it hard to breathe. The whole stupid scheme made her want to cry. She told Martin she wanted to go home and wove her way through the crowd and out. She stopped in the yard to catch her breath, and then it happened. The fire. She heard Martin yelling orders, and people came churning out of the building. Confusion. Martin tried to organize the chaos, and the projector mechanic was carried out coughing and put down right in front of Aliide. The projector mechanic was from Tallinn. The projector mechanic was in his shirtsleeves.
The projector mechanic had taken off his wool jacket before the film began, wrapped it around his arm while the milkmaid looked on, drooling. Where would a movie man, a man who moved around all the time, keep his passport, if not in his breast pocket?
Aliide rushed back into the building.
Läänemaa, Estonia
The Girl Has Hans’s Chin
The cupboard was heavy, heavier than it had been before. She had to drag the unconscious girl out by her feet. The girl’s fingernails were shredded and her fingertips were bloody; there were bruises on her forehead.
“Why did you come here?” The question beat in Aliide’s chest, but she couldn’t get it out. She didn’t really want to know. The men would be here soon; she had to wake the girl up. Hans’s chin exactly. She threw water from the bucket over her. The girl curled up in a fetal position, then sat bolt upright.
“Grandmother would like some seeds. Estonian seeds. Snapdragons.”
She should shoot the girl.
Hans’s gun was still hidden in the table drawer.
“It was an accident. It really was! I was in Estonia, and I remembered that I had relatives here. Grandmother had mentioned the name of the village. And when I realized that I had relatives here, I thought that it was a way to escape, that there was at least someone in the country who could help me. Aliide was the only name I knew. I didn’t even know if Aliide would be here, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Pasha brought me to Estonia.”
Or maybe she should coax her back into the little room and leave her there.
Or give her to the Mafia. Render unto the Russians what belongs to the Russians.
“I didn’t have any choice! What they did to the girls . . . The way they...If you had seen how they... They took pictures of everything and they said that they would send videos home to Sasha, to everybody, if I tried to get away. They must have done it by now.”
“Who’s Sasha?”
“My boyfriend. Or he was, anyway. I shouldn’t have killed the boss. Now everyone at home knows and I can never go back there...”
“You could never look Sasha in the eye.”
“No.”
“Or anyone else.”
“No.”
“And you would never know, when you passed people on the street, if they had seen those pictures. They would look at you, and you would never know if you’d been recognized. They would be laughing among themselves and looking in your direction, and you wouldn’t know if they were talking about you.”
Aliide shut her mouth. What was she talking about? The girl stared at her.
“Make some coffee,” Aliide said. She opened the front door and slammed it shut again.
Läänemaa, Estonian Soviet Socialist Republic
Aliide Rubs Her Hands with Goose Fat
“Ants Makarov, son of Andres.” Hans tried out his new name. “And I just have to register for an apartment and go to work?” “Exactly.”
“You’re an amazing woman.”
“It’s just a question of organization. It cost one pig. And a couple jars of honey.”
Aliide gave Hans a pile of Communist leaflets and ordered him to read them on the train on the way to Tallinn. “And then keep them in your room where people can see them.”
Hans put down the leaflets and wiped his hands on his pants.
“Hans, you need to be believable! And you need to go to meetings and participate!”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Yes you could! I’ll use the horse cart to take you to the station. You can hide among the market bundles so no one in the village will see you and wonder who the strange man is with me. Then you just hop on the train. I’ll come to see you and bring you any news.”
Hans nodded.
“Will you be all right here?” he asked.
Aliide turned back to the stove. She hadn’t told Hans about the plan she had started to hatch after she’d arranged his passport. She would divorce Martin and apply for release from the kolkhoz, say that she was going to go to school, get herself a good profession, and then come back. Everyone would vote for that without hesitation—they needed educated workers at the kolkhoz. It would be a weighty enough reason to free her from this serfdom that they called a commune. Then she would take up painting or go to work for the railway—they had dormitories, too. And she could take classes in the evenings, maybe enroll in night school. All the workplaces were in favor of study. Then she could be near Hans, and they could go for walks, and go to the movies, and things like that, and everything would be wonderful—they wouldn’t see anyone they knew on the street, they wouldn’t be surrounded by barking dogs, everything would be new, and there wouldn’t be a smell of Ingel anywhere. Hans would finally see what a wonderful woman his Liide really was. And if the mere promise of a passport had got Hans to show some backbone, what would a whole new life do? Of course Aliide didn’t know how Hans would react to the fact that the streets of Tallinn were swarming with Russians, that half the workers in the factories seemed to speak Russian, but once he got a taste of wind and sky he wouldn’t feel so bad about what was lost, would he? He could stand the Russians, make a few little concessions? Aliide’s new shoes were waiting in the back of the wardrobe. She would leave her old shoes on the train on the way to Tallinn. The new ones
had high heels—she wouldn’t need to put a piece of wood in the hole in her overshoes where the high heel should go anymore.
They had just come home from the veterinarian. Martin had taken him a bottle of liquor, and the doctor had given them the papers telling the sausage factory to take their cow, which had been sick for a long time and had died that morning. Martin sat down in the front room to read. Aliide took off her scarf, went into the kitchen, and turned on the light.
There was blood on the floor.
“Does my hubby want a nightcap?”
That suited Martin. He was already picking up a copy of Voice of the People.
Aliide made him a stiffer drink than usual. She didn’t put Maria Kreel’s mixture in it—instead she took out a packet of powder she’d gotten from Martin’s watch pocket. He had shown it to her once—he got it from the men at the NKVD, and it didn’t taste like anything. Later Aliide had replaced his powder with some flour, and now she put the whole packet’s contents into his drink.
“My little mushroom always knows what I want,” Martin said approvingly as he took the glass from her. He tossed back the drink in one gulp and bit off a piece of rye bread. Aliide went to do the dishes. Martin’s newspaper fell on the floor.
“Tired already?”
“Well, I guess I am getting sleepy.”
“You’ve had a long day.”
Martin got up, stumbled toward the bedroom, and flopped down on the bed. The straw in the mattress rustled. The metal bedsprings squeaked. Aliide went to look at him—poked at him—he didn’t move. She left him lying there with his shoes on, went back to the kitchen, closed the curtains, and started to rub her hands with goose fat.
“Is there anyone here?”
“Liide . . .”
The voice came from the back of the kitchen, from a corner of the cupboard, behind a basket of potatoes. Aliide pushed the things out of the way and pulled Hans out from behind them. His shoulder was bloody. Aliide opened his coat.
“You went to the woods, didn’t you?”
“Liide . . .”
“Not to Tallinn.”
“I had to.”
“You promised.”
Aliide got some alcohol and gauze and started cleaning the wound.
“Were you caught?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Liide, don’t be angry.”
Hans grimaced. They had been surrounded. It was the perfect ambush. He had been shot, but he got away. “Did they catch everyone else?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you tell anyone in the forest about me?” “No.”
“There are a lot of NKVD agents in the woods. I know, because Martin told me. One of them even came here on his way to look for someone whose group had been infiltrated. They have poisoned liquor. You could have told them what you know.”
“I didn’t drink any liquor with anyone.”
Aliide examined his shoulder. Her hands came away red. They couldn’t consult a doctor.
“Hans, I’m going to get Maria Kreel.”
Hans stared back at her and smiled.
“Ingel is here. Ingel will take care of it.”
The bottle of alcohol fell from Aliide’s hand. Shards and liquor spread across the floor to the baseboards. She wiped her brow, smelled the blood and liquor. A rage rushed inside her, and her knees sagged. She opened her mouth but didn’t know how to form sentences; just a muffled sputter and a squeak came out, her ears shut tight. She fumbled for the back of a chair, held on to it until her breath started to flow, and when it did Hans had fainted. She just had to keep her mind focused, handle the situation. She knew how to handle situations. First she had to drag Hans into the little room; then she had to go to the Kreels. She grabbed Hans under the arms. Something peeped out of his coat pocket.
A notebook. She let go of him and picked it up.
May 20, 1950
Free Estonia!
I don’t know what to think. I’m reading Ingel’s most recent letter. I got it today, and I got the last one two days ago. Ingel writes about remembering the willow trees at home, particularly one of them. At first it really made me smile. It would be a good thing to think about until the next letter, that willow. Maybe I would be reminiscing about it at the same time that Ingel was. Then I realized that there was something wrong. Ingel’s letter had a worn, well-read look about it. Why was the envelope so clean? The last time people were taken away and letters started coming, they didn’t even have envelopes. I hope it’s just that one of the messengers put the letter in an envelope, but my heart won’t let me believe it.
I’m comparing the signature to the one in the family Bible. Ingel wrote Linda’s name and birthdate there. The handwriting’s not the same. It looks the same, but it’s not the same.
Liide brought me a bottle of liquor. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t dare tear up the letters, although I’d like to. Liide might ask where they were, and then what would I tell her? How can I ask her about it? I just feel like hitting her.
Hans Pekk, son of Eerik, Estonian peasant
September 20, 1951
Free Estonia!
Liide’s arranged everything. She got me a passport. I’m sitting here leafing through it wondering if it can really be true. But it is true. I went ahead and promised Aliide that I wouldn’t go into the forest, that I would go to Tallinn to live in a dorm. Liide wrote down the address for me and gave me a lot of instructions.
I’m not going to Tallinn. There are no fields there, no forests. What kind of a man would I be in the city?
Sometimes I feel like aiming this Walther at Liide.
My mind has been perfectly clear for a long time. I just want to see Linda again.
Ingel would have put more salt in the gravy.
Hans Pekk, son of Eerik, Estonian peasant
1951
Läänemaa, Estonian Soviet
Socialist Republic
Aliide Kisses Hans and Wipes Blood from the Floor
Aliide realized she was yelling, but she didn’t care anymore. She threw the water pail on the floor, smashed a jar of Red Moscow perfume, and scattered a pile of Soviet Woman sewing patterns. She would never sew any of those Tallinn dresses, never walk hand in hand with Hans along the Viru Gate, carefree because she would never encounter those men, beautiful because the people she passed didn’t recognize her. She would never do those things with Hans that she’d dreamed of these last few months as she lay next to Martin while he snored. Hans had promised! Aliide yelled until her voice ran out. What did it matter if Martin woke up? What did it ever matter to anyone? What did anything matter anymore? Everything was shattered. All the trouble she’d been through! All the striving! Collecting fines from people for not having children! All the enormous work she’d done, all the sleepless nights, every day of her life wasted by fear, the stink of Martin’s flesh, her endless humiliation, endless lies, endless writhing around in Martin’s bed, constantly trembling, the underarm shields in her rayon dress squishing with the sweat of fear, the dentist’s hairy hands, the viscous glaze over Linda’s eyes after that night, the lights, the soldiers’ boots—she would have forgiven all of it, forgotten all of it, for just one day in a park in Tallinn with Hans. That’s why she had taken care of her skin, cleansed her face with Red Poppy soap, remembered to rub goose fat on her hands several times a day. So she wouldn’t look like a country girl. They wouldn’t have been interrogated even once; they would have been left in peace, but that didn’t matter to Hans. All she had asked for was one little moment together in the park. She had fed him and clothed him and warmed his bathwater, got a new dog to protect him, brought him his newspapers, carried up bread and butter and buttermilk, knit him socks, arranged his medicines and liquor, written the letters, done everything to make him happy. Had Hans asked even once how she was doing? Had he ever been worried about her? She had been ready to wipe the slate clean, let everything go, forgive all the shame she had endured for
his sake. And what did he do? He lied!
Hans had never had any intention of walking with Aliide in the parks of Tallinn.
And then there were those letters... Hans had lost consciousness. Aliide pressed her foot against his shoulder, but he didn’t move.
She went to check on Martin. He was in exactly the same position as before. He couldn’t have woken up in the meantime. Aliide had left an empty bucket next to his boots in case he woke up. The clatter would have warned her. The bucket was in exactly the same spot where she’d left it, a hand’s width from the washstand.