Gathering her things, Etti hurried out, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake.
Perhaps the other women were also thinking of Tiina. I saw some of them cast a glance at the place she used to occupy near the long window casement when she joined us at the knitting group. Her husband had circulated pamphlets on behalf of the Forest Brothers, calling for action and the need to support the old Estonian home guard army, what was left of it. Tiina had begged him not to be so foolish, to keep his mouth closed. But he hadn’t listened. Maybe he had hoped Tiina’s position as housekeeper of the Partorg’s apartment meant that they would be spared. He had soon discovered his mistake.
Calling out my own goodbyes, I hurried to the door of the apartment, my mind already racing ahead to the sheep, which would need to be let out when I reached home. I twisted the handle and crashed straight into something hard outside in the hallway. Too shocked to cry out, I could only mutely register the brown curls and the checked jacket, the long thin fingers clasped like a manacle around my wrists.
‘Jakob!’
Before I could say more, my brother leaned around me, closing the door firmly behind my back so we were alone in the corridor. In vain, I struggled to free my hands but Jakob’s grip was as tight as I remembered it.
‘Thank God it’s you,’ he said, brushing back his hair with one hand. ‘I thought I would have to wait hours. I had to hide in the shadows when Etti came out. I’m probably covered in cobwebs.’
‘Why?’ I demanded. ‘What are you up to?’
My brother put his finger to his lips, a frown deepening the groove between his brows. ‘Hush! I don’t want the whole knitting circle after me. I don’t need their questions.’ He began to lead me down the steps, taking them two at a time, our footsteps clattering in the stairwell.
‘Not so fast!’ I wrenched my hand away.
When we reached the bottom I turned him back to face me. ‘Well?’ I hissed, rubbing my wrist. ‘What’s the big secret?’
There were circles beneath Jakob’s eyes, I realised. He had jammed his hands into his pockets. His jaw moved back and forth as if he were chewing invisible gum, a habit I knew from childhood. It was the same gesture he made whenever he was debating the best course of action, usually the kind that involved the fastest way to absolve himself of chores so he could join his friends fishing at the riverside.
‘Have you eaten?’ he said suddenly.
The question startled me. ‘Not since last year.’
Jakob grinned, but the smile was wonky. It made the hairs prickle on my arms.
‘Funny.’
I let out a breath. ‘No. You think I have roubles to waste on food?’ I couldn’t resist the chance to highlight the advantages he had been given. ‘You think our parents give me an allowance the way they do you?’
Jakob stared at me for a fraction of a second. And then he turned. ‘Come on.’
The door groaned loudly as he pushed against it.
Outside the wind had come up, whipping through the branches of the linden trees lining the courtyard and stirring up dust, making golden motes dance in the cold sunlight. The shadows were lengthening.
‘I have to get home, Jakob.’ My shoes slipped on the cobblestones as I hurried to keep up with his long strides. ‘I shouldn’t even be here.’
‘We aren’t going far.’ He threw a glance back at me over his shoulder. ‘Did you catch a ride in?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll drive you home.’
I looked up in surprise. ‘You bought a car?’
‘No.’ His gaze shifted. ‘It’s on loan from a friend.’
‘Which friend?’ I demanded.
‘It doesn’t matter. Are you coming?’
I sensed his growing irritation but it only made me want to stand my ground. ‘Besides, shouldn’t you be in class?’
Jakob came to an abrupt halt and swung around. ‘Stop asking so many questions. Just trust me. Can you do that?’
I raised my chin, but the seriousness in Jakob’s eyes made the retort die before it reached my lips. We crossed the courtyard in silence, heading back towards the towering university buildings and then down a street that ran beside the marketplace.
Jakob stopped outside the big glass window of a cafe, one I had passed before but never entered. A striped awning extended over the entrance, the colours bright strips of green and grey. The name ‘Werner’s’ was written in curly script across the tinted window. I frowned. Back before the start of the occupation, it had been bursting with students; now the only ones who could afford such luxuries as coffee and beer were the Soviets who had been assigned good jobs at the university or the men who were lucky enough to work for the Partorg or the NKVD.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘A cafe, Jakob? Really?’
Jakob didn’t reply but grasped the door handle. The scent of tobacco unfurled from the open doorway, along with the faint hum of voices and – overpowering, intoxicating – the rich mahogany scent of coffee. Real coffee, not bitter ground-up hazelnuts.
‘Hurry up. You’re letting the draft in.’
Still frowning at him, I stepped inside.
It was dark inside. An old man with whiskers sat snoring in an armchair, while at a long counter that ran the length of the room four Russian men in business suits nursed steaming cups of coffee. Their voices carried on the swirl of their tobacco smoke. They turned to us as the door slammed shut, cigarettes still dangling from their lips, and I felt my cheeks colour. But we were of little interest – just another shabby-looking pair of students – and they soon turned away.
‘Stay here.’
I watched Jakob weave between the tables, his knees brushing against the backs of chairs. I realised with a pang that he was thin, too. His trousers and jacket did not cling as they had when Mama presented them proudly on his last day at the farmhouse. They hung loosely, the jacket too short in the arms. When we were children I had teased him about his height, calling him stork-legs, asking him if the air in the clouds above was warm or cool. I had missed him since he stopped visiting. The months at home had been lonely. He began to talk with the man behind the counter, gesticulating with his hands.
I pushed away the small guilty niggle that whispered I should be heading back to the farm, and sank down into a chair near the window. I should not be here with Jakob, indulging my senses in the long-forgotten aroma of coffee. The noise of footsteps outside made me glance up sharply. But it was only a group of soldiers marching past, filling the street with the sound of their boots.
‘Surprise!’
I stared in disbelief down at the plate Jakob had set in front of me.
‘A kringle?’ Glistening and caramelised, the pastry was heaped on a small white china dish, a powdery pelt of sugar coating its gentle curves. I looked up to find Jakob grinning.
‘I told you this was a special place. Remember how you used to ask for a kringle every birthday instead of a cake? You even created that special stitch with Grandmother, “kringle stitch”, and you knitted Papa a scarf full of little pastries. You told him the kringle stitch was magic; it would protect him from sickness and bolting horses, and highwaymen who intended to rob him. What a funny child you were.’
‘I remember,’ I said. My eyes were drawn back to the plate. I could not recall the last time I had seen a kringle, let alone had one placed in front of me. The ingredients alone must have cost more than six months of Jakob’s yearly allowance. It took all my strength not to reach out and press my thumb against the sugar-flecked china. Jakob’s eyes were still eagerly on me, his expression as bright and boyish as a child watching presents being opened on Christmas Day.