The photograph showed my mother as a girl of seven or eight, clothed in a white summer dress, standing outside a large building – a town hall with fluted columns and dormer windows. The sun beamed down on her shining hair and the oversized bow tied on one side of her head. I remembered my mother telling me it had been taken in Haapsalu, on the coast of Estonia. The Town Hall was where my grandfather worked, along with his brother, my great-uncle, who had a large estate that included a farm, a sauna and a little lake where my family would go in summer to picnic beside the shore. It was there, in Haapsalu, that my mother had been taught to knit by the local women. Her lessons were interrupted when my grandfather had a falling out with my great-uncle and moved the whole family away to Moscow when my mother was fifteen. My mother told me that her aunt and uncle later lost the farm and moved away without letting anyone know their destination. One of her greatest regrets, she often said, was never going back to search for them or to speak again to the women who had shown her how to bind off a single strand of yarn to make the lace edges sewn onto the centre of the shawl I now held in my lap.
Draping it across my hand, I marvelled again at the shawl’s tiny stitches. The pattern was a mystery. It ran in a series of repeated images down the middle, finishing in small bobbles knitted to the corners. Although it was soft, its weight was comforting. I remembered the way my mother had thrown it into the air as I sat in her room, allowing the folds of it to settle upon my shoulders like snowflakes.
What would she say now, my Mamochka, if she could witness me trapped here in this place at the mercy of my uncle? Would she advise me to stay put, as meek as a mouse, or to find shelter elsewhere until he came to his senses and forgave me my indiscretions? What if my Olga was arrested next on some made up charge? I could not bear to imagine her locked away. The guilt would be too much. Where could we go, though? Any place we tried to run in Moscow would not be far enough, even if I did have friends who would be brave enough to defy my uncle and take pity on me. His guards would find us and I would be dragged back to face a greater punishment than the one I had endured yesterday.
As I ran the shawl through my hands, an image appeared suddenly before me. A pine forest. A farmhouse. A sauna nestled deep in the woods. Waves lapping at a shoreline.
A seed of an idea began to unfurl. What if I went to Papa? What if I begged him to shelter me?
Putting the shawl back in the tin, I rummaged in my drawer, moving aside my stockings to take out the book Joachim had lent me; a worn copy of Crime and Punishment. Inside were roubles he had asked me to put away for safekeeping. The apartment he lived in was shared with six others, and it was not safe to leave personal belongings about. Although I was allowed a monthly stipend from my uncle, it was carefully meted out, each account recorded in a ledger. Another form of control.
I hurried to Olga’s room and knocked on her door. ‘Olga?’ She appeared in the doorway, her silvery hair loosened for sleep. I saw her flinch and remembered how my face must look, the imprint of Uncle’s hand on my cheek darkening.
I shoved the roubles into her hand, and she looked down at them in surprise.
‘I want you to go to the train station first thing tomorrow,’ I whispered. ‘And buy us two tickets.’
Her mouth fell open. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To Papa,’ I said. ‘In Estonia.’
‘Estonia?’ She looked horrified, as if it were the other side of the world. Casting a look up the empty hallway, she dragged me into her room. The lamp beside her own bed was lit. A book lay open on the bedspread. ‘But your uncle, Lida!’ she hissed. ‘He won’t allow it.’
‘I will write to him,’ I said. ‘I promise. Once we’re away. Papa, too. We must write to him before we go, to let him know we are coming, but we mustn’t give him a chance to say no. We must send word and then leave straightaway.’
Olga was shaking her head. She pushed the roubles towards me. ‘I cannot.’ She lifted her chin. Her eyes flashed. ‘I will not let you do this, Lydochka. It is madness.’
‘Is it madness for me to want to see my own father? Is it madness to want to see with my own eyes the place my mother was born? I have questions only Papa can answer.’
Olga’s lips pursed. I knew what she was thinking but I fancied I could also see a glimmer of sympathy in her eyes, a tiny scrap of doubt. It would be easy to give up meekly and return to my bed. But I could not stay here any longer. I would not die alone, like a flower pressed behind a glass.
I forced myself to speak coldly. ‘If you won’t help me, I will have to go alone.’
Olga’s shoulders stiffened, but then her eyes filled with tears. ‘If I promise to help you, you must follow my instructions, Lida. No lying. You do exactly as I say. Agreed?’ She held out her hand. I pressed the money into it. Leaning forward, she hugged me, taking care not to press her face against my bruised cheek.
When Olga left the next morning, I flew around the apartment, packing the things I thought we would need. Into my suitcase went Mamochka’s shawl, her photograph and book. Enough clothes to last me a week. I dragged out an old school book, tearing a page loose and scribbling my note to Papa on its lined surface. When I was done, I folded it and placed it in an envelope, ready to be sent. I spied the copy of Joachim’s book still on my bed and put it in, too. Crime and Punishment; a reminder of what he had sacrificed. A reminder of my uncle’s cruelty, his despotism. Soon I would be free of him.
A day later, we crossed the border from Russia into Estonia. I felt the air change.
It was subtle. It began with a tingling in my feet; a feeling of spreading warmth that twisted around my ankles and climbed steadily up my body until I felt my heart begin to thaw. The fear of being pursued and the heavy guilt of leaving Joachim behind were beginning to fade, at least for now.
We had slipped into Serafimovicha Ulitsa just before dawn, hurrying through the empty lobby of the building complex during the handover between the night and day security officers, when both men were distracted. Moving through the back streets of Moscow, we had caught an early trolley car to Kazanksy Station and waited in the shadows until it was time for our train to depart. Although Olga grumbled about being tired and the weight of her suitcase, she had done as I asked, organising our passage and sending the letter.
As the train thundered along, I rubbed my hands together and wriggled my toes, pressing them against the inside of my sandals. I was glad of them now; I could not imagine travelling in heels, even if they were fashionable. Through the window, I could see a pine forest, the trees spreading their arms wide as if to touch each other and the snaking form of the train as it rounded a bend, leaving the border checkpoint behind, a grey plume of steam ribboning up from the funnel into the sky.