Etti still seemed uncertain. ‘Well, if you insist.’ She began to move away but turned back as she reached the stairs. ‘You are not what I expected,’ she said, her brow furrowed. ‘Either of you.’
The unmistakable scent of frying fish engulfed me as I stepped out of the tiny bathroom. Saliva flooded my mouth. What had I last eaten? Breakfast on the train: a pot of coffee and lumpy biscuits studded with raisins. It seemed a lifetime ago.
Running my fingers through the waves of my damp hair, I hurried to the bedroom. Olga had laid out fresh clothes for me. As I buttoned on my skirt and blouse I spied a figurine of a provincial milkmaid on a nearby shelf. A mantle clock ticked the seconds quietly away, behind a glass dome surrounded by spinning golden baubles. Beautiful objects. Someone with taste had selected them. Curious, I pulled open the wardrobe door. It was filled with women’s clothing, dresses and gloves. Hats and shoes. I realised that they must have belonged to the person who had lived here before. They must have left in a hurry. Perhaps the captain did not realise their things were still here, cluttering the wardrobe. I let the door fall closed.
When I turned to leave, I saw my mother’s shawl folded on an old rocking chair near the window. As I drew it towards me, something caught beneath it fluttered to the carpet. It was an envelope which had once been cream. Now it was yellowed at the corners, mottled with age. I wondered who had left it there. Perhaps the person who had owned this room before had forgotten it, in their hurry to leave? I turned it over. My breath caught suddenly.
It was addressed to my mother.
The handwriting was faded, drawn across the paper in long elegant loops. Olga must have left it for me. I stood frozen with the letter pinched between my fingers. Although I wanted to rip it open, some part of me was hesitant. I could not suppress the fear that some further stain upon my mother’s character would reveal itself. How many more secrets had she kept?
My stomach gurgled with hunger. I slipped the envelope into my skirt, resolved to read it once I had eaten and bolstered my courage for what lay in its folds.
The working kitchen was situated at the back of the townhouse. Copper pans hung from hooks on the ceiling. Late afternoon sunlight flooded the room. In here, the smell of fish was both rich and delicate, perfumed with spices.
Etti and Olga stood side by side in front of the stove with their backs to the door. They were peeling potatoes and chatting as I entered, tossing the skins into a bucket. I heard Olga say her husband’s name.
‘… candelabras everywhere,’ she continued. ‘And a great circular pool with lights and fat carp swimming around.’
Etti drew in her breath. A slippery spiral of potato peeling flew from her hand to the floor. ‘I cannot even imagine.’
‘Yes. And sometimes Ivan would come out and catch a fish for a special guest. And sometimes a guest would join the fishes for a swim if he’d consumed too much vodka. And Ivan would be sent in to fetch him out, all dripping.’
Etti burst out laughing. Olga laughed too.
Steam swirled from a pot and Olga bent over to stir it with a spoon.
Etti paused in her peeling, her finger on the blade.
‘I remember when David was alive he would often rise early to make challah. He would sprinkle it with spices and brush it with egg yolk. The smell of it baking would warm the house. I think he enjoyed baking.’
Olga tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot to loosen the sauce. ‘David? He was your husband?’
Etti nodded. Her lips were pursed. ‘He was a good man. He would have been a good father. Now it’s just the two of us.’ She looked down at her stomach.
Olga tutted. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
Etti shrugged but I could see she was trying not to cry. Her distress made me think of Joachim. How could I ever forgive myself for not fighting harder for his release?
I remembered Mama telling me once that Estonian women were proud. They did not like to cry in front of others.
I stepped forward. Olga turned, smiling.
‘Lida. You look much happier.’ Her voice grew softer. ‘Did you find the letter I left for you? Your mother’s?’
I nodded. My throat ached as if a fever burned inside. I could not bring myself to tell her I had not had the courage to read it. She seemed so pleased.
‘I found it when I was unpacking my things,’ she said. ‘It was in the pocket of the fur coat all this time! Who could tell?’ She shook her head in wonderment and glanced at the bubbling pot. ‘I think we are nearly done here. Just the potatoes to go.’
‘I can tell.’ I sniffed again at the rich aroma. Fat sizzled and popped in the pan. ‘It smells heavenly.’
‘Our friend here was showing me the way to make mulgipuder,’ Olga said, lifting the spoon in the pot near her elbow to reveal a dripping lump of barley groats. ‘I remember your Mamochka saying it was her favourite.’
Drying her eyes on her sleeve, Etti picked up the chopping board and slid the potatoes into the boiling water. ‘And your companion certainly picked up some tips from her time at the Metropol. I would never have thought to use dried parsley to bring out the flavour of salted fish.’
She shot Olga a grateful smile, the fading light glinting on her bronze hair. ‘I appreciate the help. Tiina was a better cook than I am. I suppose I’ve been spoiled; my mother was always good with the stove. But I find it difficult. Trying to coordinate everything to come out at once. If you’ll both be seated, I’ll serve you shortly in the dining room.’
‘Please don’t fuss on our account,’ I said, wishing my blunt words were prettier, more convincing. ‘I’m sure Olga and I would be happy to eat here.’ I glanced around at the plain timber table and the scarred chairs I’d spied shoved into a shadowy corner. ‘There’s no need for such formality.’
Etti’s forehead crinkled. ‘Are you sure?’
I thought of the dinnertime rigmarole we endured back home; the silver knives and forks, the various courses each set out on their own dishes. Somebody had to clean it all up when we were done. Back home, there was an army of invisible service personnel who saw to it. Here, there was only Etti, belly straining against the folds of her housecoat.
‘Quite sure,’ Olga said, as if she had read my mind.
Etti pursed her lips but the wrinkle between her eyebrows disappeared as if an invisible iron had smoothed it out. ‘If you insist. It’s for both of you to say.’
Turning away, she grasped the handle of the frypan and slid the fish out onto two plates, then poured the bubbling sauce from the pan across a ladleful of the mulgipuder. Catching up the plates, she waddled over to the table and set them down, returning a moment later with knives and forks clutched in her fist.
I hadn’t realised just how hungry I was until the food was before me. My hands shook as I separated the fish as cleanly as I could from the bone and shovelled a forkful of the flesh into my mouth. Etti watched me, stroking her distended belly absently with one hand.
‘You must be hungrier than you thought,’ she said, but a teasing smile lit up her eyes.
Olga ate more gracefully, picking at her food with care, her fingers moving elegantly around the plate as if they were dancing.
After watching us another moment, Etti hauled herself to her feet and began to wash the pans, first filling the sink, then sliding the cooking utensils in one by one so they didn’t splash. She started to hum as she worked, scrubbing energetically at the pan that had contained the fish, picking at the black bits with her nail until they lifted away. Suddenly she recoiled. The pan sploshed into the sink. Etti spread both her hands on the cabinet bench for support. A waiting plate rolled off the edge of the bench, teetered and then arched over, splintering upon the floor.