The chaplain watched as the life that had cherished these dreams slipped away, little by little. He put his ear to the boy’s mouth just as the doctor had done and made out a hoarse, wheezing whisper. ‘Jesus … Jesus … take me … deliver me from here …’
‘Brother, be calm. He will help you. Jesus will not forsake any of us. He will deliver us all to safety. Do not be afraid, brother. You are His. He has redeemed you as He has redeemed all of us. You have borne your burden faithfully and Jesus will not forget that …’
The man’s restless breathing evened out and began to grow faint. The chaplain whispered quietly into the dying man’s ear, ‘Jesus has forgiven your sins. He will grant you everlasting rest and peace.’
A brief, gentle shudder shook the dying man, two soft sighs escaped him, and the chaplain pressed his mouth closed and whispered, ‘Amen’.
Over on the other side of the tent, somebody pulled a blanket over his head and muffled sobs began to emerge from underneath it. The chaplain was just about to head over to him when the wounded man who’d been lying unconscious beside Eerola suddenly started to speak. He had been stirring restlessly the whole time, obviously disturbed by the chaplain’s whispering. The man, who was high on morphine, grunted almost incoherently, ‘Jesus … Jesus …’
The chaplain bent down beside him, thinking he was praying. Actually, the man had lost contact with reality entirely. He was a tall, broad-faced youth. His wide, brutal-looking mouth revealed tobacco-stained teeth.
‘Jesus, Jesus,’ the man repeated over and over, the word from the chaplain’s speech clearly having fixed itself in his mind.
Quietly, the chaplain said to him, ‘Brother, shall we pray?’
‘Jesus, Jesus,’ the man repeated, only to himself. Then he suddenly burst out into a harsh, piercing howl.
‘Shh, shhhh, calm now,’ the chaplain whispered, but the man went on howling, foaming at the mouth as his eyes rolled back in his head. From underneath the blanket that had been muffling sobs just moments ago, there now came a shriek of ‘Stop it, stop it!’ as the man burst into a hysterical fit of tears.
‘Ah-ha, oh dear! Oh, what a world! Please, dear people, please!’
The doctor crawled quickly into the tent and hurried over to the crying man, trying to calm him. The chaplain was completely at a loss for what to do and decided it was best to leave the tent. As he emerged outside, he heard a medic saying in a pained voice verging on tears, ‘How much more can they suffer? Can’t they at least be left to die in peace?’
The chaplain took his raincoat from the branch and crouched down to a squat. He prayed, half crying, that God would let the main road open and save the wounded men. The sobs died down within the tent, the doctor having managed to calm the man. The medics carried out Eerola’s body and set it in the grove of trees behind the tent, the last in a long row.
Rain drizzled from the sky. The Petromax hummed quietly in the tent and now and again a tired, hopeless wail would emerge from its tarped awnings.
Guards stood in the darkness surrounding the aid station, keeping watch over this miserable grove, where the cost of the flanking operation was being paid out in pain.
VI
During the night, the enemy retreated through the forest behind the point where the road had been cut off. They had abandoned their heavy artillery. Amongst other things, the second KV, or ‘Klim’, as they called them, engaged in the earlier attack had been driven into a swamp. The men were still skirmishing with the last of the enemy soldiers along the roadside when the ambulances arrived to evacuate the wounded. Many of them had been awaiting rescue minute by minute, hour by hour, for twenty-four hours. Slow, torturous waiting, unrelenting pain and the fear that the regiment wouldn’t be able to defend that crucial stretch of conquered road had been steadily wearing them down. And, in the grip of this fear, they had watched the medics carry those who hadn’t made it out to the line of corpses.
The vehicles’ arrival prompted a surge of hysterical joy in the minds of the wounded. Even the weakest of them endeavored to demonstrate this with whatever strength he had. The prospect of delivery washed the recent hours of torture from their minds. Moans and wails receded into the silence of the dark spruce grove, to be forgotten there for ever. The dead could no longer bear witness to their pain, and anyway, no one particularly wanted to inquire. Their suffering was theirs alone. They had given up everything else. They had been coerced out of everything, down to the last shred; but their suffering they were permitted to keep for themselves. It was of no use to anybody.
At daybreak, Sarastie’s battalion reconnoitered the surrounding area. Kariluoto’s platoon and the men from Koskela’s who’d been attached to it were ordered to search the village on whose flank the previous evening’s attack had been halted. The ambulances had already driven through it, of course, but the village hadn’t yet been scoured.
One resident had been left behind. A man as old as the hills – a starikka, as the Karelians called them – who was nothing but a burden to anybody at this point, and had been allowed to remain behind for precisely that reason. He lived in a small cabin on the edge of town, and was gazing out of the window when gray-clad men began to flash between the buildings. There came one – crouching, lying in wait with his gun under his arm. He walked into the neighboring building and then reappeared in the courtyard. Others followed further behind and when their leader gestured to them with his arm, they threw their guns over their shoulders and calmly joined him. The starikka watched as each of them yanked off a stake from the courtyard fence. He was beginning to be frightened. What were they going to do with those stakes?
Then he gave a sigh of relief. The men threw their packs and guns to the ground and raced off to the potato patch.
When the men had dug up the potatoes, they washed them in a ditch with a speed only hunger can induce. Rokka scrounged a table from one of the buildings, along with a couple of chairs and a long bench, which he then proceeded to chop into firewood. They started up three or four campfires and soon potato-filled mess kits were boiling above them.
Major Sarastie strode down the main street of the village. He gave the Eastern Karelian buildings the once-over as he walked. He considered it his duty to have some appreciation for the beauty of their gable ornaments, even if – to be perfectly frank – he didn’t understand the first thing about them. But paying attention to them was somehow part of the whole tribal spirit of the war, and Sarastie was a true herd animal, his occupation aside. So, once he realized that all the reports about Eastern Karelia described the local building style and gable ornamentation, Sarastie had to make sure he noted them as well.
His actual, and very matter-of-fact, opinion of these houses, however, was that they were not suitable for human habitation. Then he glimpsed something that genuinely intrigued him. A spring chicken just about perfectly ripe for slaughter was padding around the corner of some building. Sarastie was just about to call for his orderly when he caught sight of a block of wood somersaulting toward the chicken and whacking it in the neck. The chicken squawked and staggered a few steps, stunned. A private appeared from behind the building, nabbed the chicken by the legs, and – knick-knack! – snapped its neck.
‘Hey, Private!’
The man started, looked at the Major and sprang to attention, the chicken still in his hand.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Private Rahikainen, Major, sir.’
‘And is Private Rahikainen aware that violating residents’ property in these villages is strictly forbidden?’
‘Major, sir, with all due respect. There
aren’t any residents. I conducted a full investigation.’
‘I believe you are aware that in that case all property defaults to the state. I understand that has been made clear. They’ve certainly discussed the issue enough.’
Rahikainen stood with the chicken still dangling from his hand, dawdling his way through a response while trying to concoct some sort of cover-up. ‘Major, sir. Indeed, I was aware of that. I haven’t violated any property. This fellow here was damaged already. Hobbling on his feet. Probably got injured or something during all the fighting. He was definitely done for. I just thought that it’d be a waste to leave him. When he was about to die anyway.’
Sarastie thought this explanation was about as superb as anyone could have come up with in such a situation. He glanced rather wistfully at the chicken, and then began to chuckle at Rahikainen’s phony, puppy-dog face. ‘All right, take him this time. But let it be the last. Bull’s eye like that deserves some kind of prize.’
Rahikainen played his role right through to the end. ‘Yes sir, Major, sir! Better cut him open quick. So the meat doesn’t spoil, huh?’ And with that, Rahikainen was off. The others demanded that the chicken be cooked in the potato soup, and Rahikainen concurred. There was no soup pot to be found, but they made do with a bucket.
The only thing missing was salt, and Rahikainen decided to go and see if any had been left behind in the houses. After a few unsuccessful searches, he stepped into the cabin. The starikka was sitting on a bench at the back of the room, frightened and staring uneasily at Rahikainen. The sight of another person gave Rahikainen himself a start, but he calmed down upon observing how old the man was.
‘Well! What kinda antique Finn are you?’
The starikka didn’t reply, but stared mutely back at Rahikainen.
‘Hey guys, come see! We got a prehistoric Finn in here. Beard, fur cap and all.’
The starikka blinked his eyes, watching the men as they stepped into the cabin.
‘Well, hello there, grampaw!’ Rokka exclaimed, taking a seat beside him. The old man leaned over toward him and answered softly, his voice wavering, ‘Helo, helo.’
‘Left ya behind, did they?’
‘Ah, levd me here.’
‘They leave you any salt, pops?’ Rahikainen asked. ‘We need some for our soup.’
‘Ah, nodzing.’ The old man was becoming anxious. He recrossed his legs the other way, glancing around uneasily.
‘Didn’t they leave you anything to eat?’ Salo asked, moving in closer.
‘Took everydzing. Levd me alone here.’
‘Here’s some bread for starters … I ain’t got no more, but the supply crew ain’t far behind us. They’ll be sure to look after you. You’re gonna have a chance to eat your fill for once. Who knows the last time you had anything to eat.’
The old man took Salo’s bread with a trembling hand and looked at him hesitatingly for a moment, as though he might even give it back, but then tucked it into the chest of his quilted coat.
‘Lissen, grampaw, you know if there’s any other folks left in this town?’
‘No. All dza people gone.’
‘Too bad for them,’ Salo said. ‘We’re just gettin’ things set up around here. They weren’t too rough with you now, were they?’
‘Ah, rough, very rough.’
Rokka was scanning the room without listening to the old man. The rest of them, on the other hand, were prying the guy for every possible scrap of information about life in Eastern Karelia. He said almost nothing of his own initiative, but he answered their questions, concentrating primarily on figuring out what it was they wanted to hear. Salo was chief examiner.
‘You had any parsons around these parts?’
‘Ah, bevore, dzere vaz parzon in Pryazha.’
‘They killed him, didn’t they?’
‘Killed, killed …’
‘You got kids?’
‘Ah, had two boyz. One killed, and odzer one beaten and taken …’
‘Why’d they kill him?’
‘Ah, did not go kolkhoz.’
‘Did you have a house?’
‘Had a houze. All taken avay.’ The old man had caught on to his questioner’s delight at hearing of people being killed or mistreated, and so started steering all his responses into this same general vein.
‘Killed, killed. All killed.’
‘You’ll get that house back all right. And the churches won’t be used as stables from now on, either. Gonna be a new start around here.’
‘No more. No uzeing churchez like ztablez. Ah, dzat iz good. Dzat iz good.’
‘But where are we gonna find salt?’ Rahikainen demanded, vexed over the issue.
Rokka looked at the old man out of the corner of his eye for a moment. Then he clapped him on the back with a laugh and said, ‘You sure know how to play ’em, grampaw. You’re one crafty fella, lyin’ ’bout this, that and the other. Well, lissen, serves ’em right for pryin’ ’bout every damn thing …’
‘I thought the old geezer was taking us for pre-tty wild ride …’
Salo looked almost hurt as he said, ‘Lies? Maybe that’s what you think. But that’s what life has been like back here. And now he’ll have a chance to see a better life, in his old age …’
‘Personally I don’t see what business we have with these kinds of folks. Seems pre-tty pointless liberating them or taking them prisoner, if you ask me.’
Rokka walked over to the stove. There was a stool sitting beside it with a basket on top, covered in a sack. Rokka pulled off the sack and the old man started and stood up.
‘Lissen here, grampaw! Looks like you was cursin’ those fellas over nothin’! They left you a whole basket a bread! See? Here, take a look. Guess they must’ta forgotten’na tell you.’
The old man was trembling, but Rokka burst out in a reassuring tone, ‘Don’t you worry. We won’t take ’em from you. But if I find that salt I’m takin’ me a pinch.’
They found some up on the shelf – coarse, brown salt.
‘In’nat case, I’m takin’ my pinch. Lissen, grampaw, we’ll give you some a our soup in exchange. You can have some cigarettes too. Give ’im some, fellas.’
The men pressed some cigarettes into the old man’s trembling hands. Rokka watched Salo, laughing, ‘Lissen, let ’im keep that scrap a bread you gave ’im earlier, too. He gave you a whole song and dance for it!’
Salo tried to save face by joining in the others’ sniggering. Forcing a laugh, he said, ‘Old man sure does know how to pull a fellow’s leg. He’s studied up all right.’
They left the old man in peace and set off to cook their soup.
A column drove down the main road and Sihvonen exclaimed excitedly, ‘Must be new troops! Maybe we get some time off the line.’
New troops had been a perennial source of hope for some time now. If ever the men so much as glimpsed an unfamiliar squad, they eagerly inquired after its regiment number. The others took no interest, having been disappointed far too many times already, but Sihvonen headed over to the roadside and asked, ‘What unit?’
‘Weapons company transport.’
‘Which weapons company?’
‘First. Don’t you know your own company’s drivers?’
‘Huh … oh, right. I didn’t mean that …’
‘Well then, what did you mean?’
‘Aw, go to hell!’
‘You messin’ with me?’
‘Just go … go!’
Then Mielonen came from the command post. ‘All rrrighty,
boys, we’re heading out on the offensive.’
No one said a single word. Dejected heads hung low. The soup was half-cooked. They tied the bucket to the end of a pole and carried it over their shoulders. Maybe there would be enough time to let it cook through on the next break.
Chapter Eight
I
‘That’s how far it is to Petroskoi.’ A dirty, black-stained finger traced the road leading to the city on a map of Eastern Karelia purchased back at the canteen.
‘Matrusa’s around here. Then there’s Polovina, then Vilka.’
‘And Pos Rudan, heehee! And the Village of the Decisive Third Kolkhoz, heehee! And Red Plowmensville.’ Vanhala was endlessly amused by the Eastern Karelian place names, which sounded strange to his ears. The new communist names were particularly hilarious, and made him laugh almost as much as the slogans in their own Information Bureau pamphlets.
‘Once we make it to Petroskoi, I’m not moving a goddamn muscle for two weeks,’ Rahikainen declared.
‘War ain’t gonna stop there,’ Rokka said. ‘You think that town’s so important Russia’s gonna collapse soon as we take it? You better not. There’s a whole lotta globe back there behind Petroskoi.’
‘Well, let there be whatever. I’m not going.’
‘No, no. No way.’
‘No.’
‘No.’
‘No.’
‘No.’
‘Well, no. Not further than that.’